on earth did that man say to you?”
The arts commissioner’s wife leaned forward. “It had to have been something incredible,” she said eagerly. “Just look at the way you’re blushing!”
“Of course it was something incredible,” the ballet master’s boyfriend simpered. “A man that gorgeous wouldn’t say anything that wasn’t incredible. Isn’t that right, Miss Landon?”
Kyra cleared her throat. “Do—do any of you speak Spanish?” she said, crossing her fingers in her lap.
The ballet master sighed. “I studied it in high school, but I don’t remember a thing beyond te amo.”
Everyone laughed. Kyra felt her heart start beating again.
“Listen, if that guy insulted you…” Ronald’s narrow jaw trembled. “If he did, I’ll-I’ll…”
“No,” Kyra said quickly. She put her hand lightly on his arm. Ronald was an inch shorter than she was and probably five pounds lighter. The man who’d just pulled that act of unbelievably crude and rude machismo had looked to be the size of a tree; he could probably pick Ronald up with one hand tied behind him. “No,” she said, forcing a smile to her lips, “he, ah, he didn’t insult me at all.”
Ronald didn’t look convinced. “What’d he say, then?”
“Ah, he said…he said he hoped I’d tell whoever was in charge that, ah, that the new center is magnificent and, ah, that he was sorry he couldn’t stay for the ballet performance but that—that dinner was superb.”
Oh God, why didn’t I stop when I was ahead? Her audience had looked half-convinced until she’d added that bit about the meal. No one would believe that, not in a million years…
“Well,” the arts commissioner’s wife said with a little smile, “he would think that, I suppose. I mean, he’s Mexican. Anything cooked without all that hot stuff, the chilies and what-have-you, would be an improvement.”
“Spanish,” Kyra said. All the heads swiveled toward her again and she swallowed hard. “He wasn’t Mexican.”
“Did he tell you that?” Ronald said, his brows knotting together again.
“No, of course not. I just—well, it was the way he spoke. His Spanish wasn’t Mexican, it was Castilian. I studied it in school for five years. I mean, and…and…”
And I am making a complete ass of myself. But then, it was a minor miracle she was able to talk any sense at all, considering what had happened, considering that an absolute stranger who’d spent half the evening undressing her with his eyes had dared speak to her that way…
“…don’t you agree, Kyra?”
Kyra blinked. “Agree with what?” she said, looking at the ballet master’s lover.
“I was saying, a man that big could never be Mexican.” He batted his lashes. “He was at least six feet tall, and all those muscles…”
He was more than six feet, Kyra thought. At least sixone or six-two. And yes, he certainly had a lot of muscles. You could tell, even beneath that dinner jacket. She had never seen a man with broader shoulders or with a broader chest, for that matter, and yet when he’d stood up she’d seen that his waist was narrow, and his hips. And he had such long, long legs…
The truth was that he was the best-looking man she’d ever seen. His face wasn’t a pretty face, nor even conventionally handsome. The bones were too pronounced, the nose too aquiline for movie-star good looks. But it was a wonderful face just the same: eyes so blue they might have been bits of a summer sky, fringed with lashes the same midnight black as his hair; cheekbones that might have been sculpted out of clay; a wide, sensual mouth, a square chin.
She had noticed him at least an hour ago. Lots of women had; she’d seen the sly little glances shooting his way. But then, to her surprise, she’d suddenly felt his eyes on her during the cocktail party. She’d wanted to turn around, to see if she were imagining things, but she hadn’t. He was too blatantly masculine, too arrogant, a man who thought he owned the world and everything in it. You could see it in the way he held himself. The blond number with him was the sort who ate that stuff up but Kyra knew better.
Besides, it would have meant being rude to Ronald, who was trying his best to entertain her despite the fact that her thoughts were back home, with her father. Charles hadn’t been well for months and today he’d seemed worse than usual. But he’d still insisted that a Landon had to attend the Arts Center opening.
Kyra’s mouth narrowed. And when he insisted, to try to reason was to court disaster.
“…to find our seats?”
She looked up. Ronald was on his feet; he was trying to pull back her chair and she realized, after a moment, that everyone else was filing out of the ballroom.
“Oh.” She smiled broadly. “Sure. Sorry.”
She took the arm he offered and let him lead her into the auditorium. The houselights dimmed, the curtains opened, and a dozen men wearing skintight leotards came leaping onstage to the beat of a drum.
“Isn’t it wonderful?” Ronald whispered.
Kyra tried not to wince as a gong began sounding mournfully in the orchestra pit. “Wonderful,” she said, and settled back in her seat.
She tried to pay attention to what was happening onstage, but her thoughts kept drifting to what had happened at dinner. If only she hadn’t looked at the man. She’d tried not to, even though she’d known he was looking at her. But finally she’d just had to peek and when she had…
God, when she had!
That look of raw desire in his deep blue eyes had done something strange to her heartbeat and suddenly she’d felt a need so primitive it had terrified her with its intensity She’d been even more terrified that it had shown on her face. He’d seen it. And he’d known exactly what it was. That was why he’d said that awful thing to her.
Kyra sprang to her feet. Ronald looked up, startled, and she shook her head, smiled as best she could, and mouthed that she was going outside, to the ladies’ room.
What was the matter with her? To think that a man like that should hold any appeal for her was ridiculous. If she ever took an interest in a man, it would certainly not be in one who went around parading his boorish masculinity.
And yet, when she felt a hand press lightly on her shoulder, when a deep, male voice said, “Miss Landon?” Kyra swung around, her pulse racing.
Had the Spaniard come back? Was he going to tell her he’d never wanted to make love to a woman as much as he wanted to make love to her? Would she have the courage to say—to admit…
But it wasn’t he. It was the manager of the new Arts Center.
“Miss Landon,” he said quietly, “there’s a phone call for you in my office. I—I’m afraid it’s not good news.”
Kyra’s mind went blank. She managed to nod, to smile politely and make her way past him. She knew, even before she reached the office and picked up the phone;
