Part 16 (2/2)

Chapter Eighteen.

As Karen dressed for the Burstromsa big dance, she was pleased with herself. For the last three days every event had gone off perfectly. The Burstroms had raved about her to the hotel manager, so much so that they had somehow given him the impression that they intended to offer her a position in their firm.

She foresaw a plump bonus in her immediate future.

The woman she saw in the mirror pleased her, too. Her black knee-length gown was plain, with an asymmetrical neckline and a six-inch slit up the back of the body-hugging skirt. The cap sleeves showed off her toned arms, and shead done her hair in an upsweep, with blond strands that dangled around the face she had so artfully made up. Not that she didnat always look her best when she attended these events, but today she glowed.

How could she not? All day Rick had been courting her, not blatantly, not ostentatiously, but with subtle attentions that made her feel special. Flirtatious. For the first time since shead fled the Himalayas, she could laugh and talk with a man without wondering if captivity and s.e.xual bondage would follow. Yet for all the comfort she felt in Rickas presence, her senses still hummed. He was dangerous. Not like Warlord, but he was not a man to be lightly dismissed. Any man who successfully ran his own international company had to be dangerous in his way. But she doubted his way involved gunshots, mercenaries, icons, and pacts with the devil.

She opened her jewelry box. She reached for her amber earrings, and instead found herself stroking her slave bracelets with one fingertip.

Oh, they werenat really slave bracelets anymore. Theyad been roughly cut off her wrists. Shead carted them around Europe in the bottom of her bag for ten months. Then, one day in Amsterdam, shead stood looking in a gold-working shop at a man who was pounding a sheet of gold with a sledgehammer. And she knew what she wanted to do.

Shead brought back her mangled bracelets. Shead sweetly asked him to let her pound on them. At first head been startled, and the two of them had argued in his broken English and her wretched Dutch. Finally he had conceded that the almost-pure gold could be shaped, even by an amateur like her. Standing in that window, shead pounded both bracelets flat. Each slam of the hammer had made her smile. With vindictive delight shead pounded into oblivion the marks that proclaimed her a slave. With a little more care shead worked the panthers into artistic, vaguely amorphous shapes. Then she had smoothed the edges, let him reshape them into bracelets, and tried them on.

They looked fabulous, heavy and gloriously barbaric. She had admired them, taken them off, and never touched them again.

Now she took pleasure in the slick gold surface. Gingerly she lifted them from the box and slipped them around her wrists. She stepped into her black satin pumps with puffy black satin bows, and walked to the full-length mirror.

The dress was chic, the shoes were s.e.xy, and the bracelets were loose, cool against her skin, and breathtaking. She looked the ant.i.thesis of a slave.

Without allowing herself a single thought of warning, she caught her turquoise silk wrap and tossed it over her shoulders. She left on the lamp in the sitting area, and walked out the door.

Tonight she would put the past behind her and never look back.

The ballroom was sumptuous, decorated with flowers and silk hangings, and the French doors that lined the patio were open to let in the dry desert air. Inside, sixty people were dressed in their best. She saw sequined c.o.c.ktail dresses and red chiffon evening gowns, designer tailored suits and formal tuxedos. Champagne and tequila flowed freely, and Good Red Rock played while every single person took to the dance floor.

Texans knew how to party.

But Karen was working, keeping an eye on the waiters who circulated with trays of champagne and hors daoeuvres, drying off a guest who had leaned against the small decorative table and knocked off a large vase full of flowers. She called for staff to pick up the shattered ceramic and the broken flowers and wipe up the spilled water. She pinned up the hem of Mrs. Burstromas full-length gown when Mr. Burstrom stomped on it while they danced the Cotton-Eyed Joe.

And all the while on the periphery of her sight, she watched Rick Wilderas dark head. He talked, he smiled, he danced with female after female. As the ballroom grew warmer he stripped off his jacket and tie. His crisp white s.h.i.+rt and suit trousers showed off his broad shoulders and flat belly, and when he unb.u.t.toned his cuffs and rolled up his sleeves, the corded strength of his tanned forearms made Karenas mouth grow dry. Packaged like this, he was a gorgeous model of a man.

Yet apparently he never glanced her way. While he held a woman in his arms he was aware of no other. . . . And last night head told her the truth: Every one of those women would have done anything for him.

Late in the evening, when the party was running smoothly and she was standing alone behind a ficus, he found her. His gaze swept her approvingly, and lingered on the bracelets. ”You look magnificent.”

Magnificent. She liked that.

”Would you do me the honor?” He held out his hand, palm up.

Old-world elegance in a gorgeous package . . . and a man who observed her astutely enough to know when she was finished with her duties.

For all her suspicions, she had not yet linked him to Warlord, yet to know that he watched her while she was unaware . . .

At her hesitation, his green-and-gold eyes crinkled in amus.e.m.e.nt.

And that made her realize she needed to make a decision and stick with it. Either he was Warlord or he wasnat. Last night shead decided he wasnat, and nothing had happened that should change her mind.

Overcoming her reluctance, she placed her hand in his and stepped into his embrace.

The band played a swing tune, and he stumbled a little as they started to move to the music.

Definitely not a Warlord move.

Despite the first misstep, Rick led well, keeping up with the lively beat until she was gasping with exertiona”and pleasure.

And that did remind her of Warlord.

I promise that before I am done with you, every time you think of pleasure, youall think of me.

And she did. Fool that she was, she did.

When the song ended, Rick asked, ”Did you enjoy yourself in my arms?”

”Very much.” She looked down, away from his teasing glance, then up and into his eyes.

He scrutinized her face, her gown, her shoes. ”Beautiful,” he breathed.

She was flirting, dragging out every last breath as an enticement, and he responded.

”The next dance is a slow one.” He offered his hand again.

”Sure.” Take that, memory of Warlord. Iam going to dance twice with the same s.e.xy guy.

She let him pull her close. She put her arms up on his shoulders, his rea.s.suringly broad shoulders, and together they swayed to the music.

This wasnat Warlord. She would know Warlord by his touch. She would know when he held her like this, their bodies moving together in a rhythm that carried them in slow steps toward intimacy.

Wouldnat she?

But she couldnat see Warlord dancing at all, ever. Dancing was such a civilized procedure, and . . .

She had to stop thinking about him. Now.

Rick Wilder was not Warlord, so maybe . . . Rick Wilder was the cure for what ailed her.

She pulled back and smiled up at him, into his rea.s.suringly light eyes. ”Where are you from, Rick?”

”I was raised in a tiny town in the Cascade Mountains. My parents are foreign immigrants, and they raise grapes for wine, and weave got a fruit stand. Weare very organic. Worms donat dare invade our apples. My father would curse them.”

”Your parents sound delightful. Any siblings?”

”Two brothers and one sister.” He moved with the music seemingly without thought, leading her confidently. ”What about you? Whatas your family like?”

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