was Mark Connelly. Glenna’s stomach tightened as Mark slowly parted his lips and closed his teeth over the berry. Pale pink juices trickled down the woman’s fingers.
With another coy laugh, she held them up for Mark’s inspection, obviously inviting him to lick them clean. Glenna made a low, reproachful sound—this woman, though beautifully groomed, was clearly old enough to be his mother. Lick her fingers? Surely not.
Smiling comfortably, Mark circled the woman’s wrist with his thumb and forefinger and lowered it. With his other hand, he whisked a handkerchief from his pocket and gently swabbed at the wet fingers. The woman pursed her lips in a mock pout, but she didn’t look terribly disappointed. She looked besotted.
Glenna turned away. She grimaced at Purcell, who had been watching the tableau, too. “Ugh,” she said. “What a display.”
To her surprise, Purcell was smiling. “Why shouldn’t they flirt?” He tilted his head. “A beautiful woman. A handsome man. Soft moon, sweet music, flowing wine—”
“She’s twice his age,” Glenna broke in irritably. “I’m not a prude, but surely a woman of fifty—”
“Sex has no age,” Purcell said firmly. “And you are a prude, my dear. Just a little. You work at it.”
Stung, Glenna tossed her napkin on the table, leaning forward to argue the point, but at that moment a shadow fell across her plate. She looked up, startled, and found Mark Connelly standing just behind her chair. He had brought his strawberry-stained friend with him.
“Hello,” he said pleasantly. “I’d begun to wonder if you had stood us up. I’m glad you didn’t. I’d like you to meet Maggie Levenger.” He smiled right into her eyes. “The senator’s wife.”
The senator’s wife. Of course. Glenna summoned up polite murmurs as the introductions were made, noticing with surprise that Purcell stood to welcome the newcomer, something he rarely did anymore.
Up close, Maggie Levenger looked even older, maybe nearer to sixty, but her eyes were bright and intelligent, her smile generous. Her voice was brassy, a touch too loud, but it was full of self-deprecating humor, and Glenna suddenly regretted her earlier hasty condemnation.
“Mr. Jennings, I know your work well. I adore you.” Without ceremony, Maggie deposited herself in the chair closest to Purcell, leaving the chair by Glenna free for Mark.
Still smiling, he raised one brow—his only acknowledgment that he needed her permission to sit. She nodded reluctantly, reminding herself that his attentions fitted into her agenda nicely. Get to know the Connellys, maybe even ask a few subtle questions....
But frankly, Mark didn’t seem nearly as safe a place to start as Philip would have been. She couldn’t imagine being quite subtle enough to fool Mark. And besides, he was physically too...powerful. He seemed to send out electromagnetic signals, inviting women to dash themselves against him like ships against the shoals.
As if unaware of all that, he settled comfortably in the chair, draining his drink, something clear and on the rocks. His open gaze studied her without subterfuge.
“I really am glad you came,” he said, his tone low and somehow intimate. “You look radiant tonight. Like...starlight.”
Toying with her fork, Glenna shot him a look of half-cloaked cynicism. Were his genes automatically programmed to spew compliments when greeting any female? Besides, it was obviously a massive overstatement. In her simple, white-beaded sheath with its demure jacket, she knew that she couldn’t hold a candle to the glamorous guests in their frothing laces, their clinging satins, their cascades of pearls and diamonds.
“Surely you mean moonlight.” She met his gaze directly, to show him without delay that she was not in the market for a flirtation. It would take more than free-flowing flattery to get past her defenses. “After all, that’s the general idea, isn’t it? Moonlight Ballroom, moonbird...”
He narrowed his eyes thoughtfully, treating her comment as if it had been quite serious. “No, in your case, I think the effect really is more like starlight. Just a little sharper, brighter than moonbeams, you know. A shade less mellow.” He smiled. “But also a shade more exciting.”
She stared at him, momentarily at a loss. “Well,” she said finally, “I’ve washed off most of the sand since you saw me last. That’s undoubtedly an improvement over this morning.”
He let his gaze run slowly across her collarbone, down her arms. “I don’t know about that,” he said. “A dusting of sand can give a woman a rather primitive appeal, don’t you think? Earthy. Abandoned. Sensual.”
She shifted on her seat, wishing he didn’t have such an uncanny knack for getting under her skin.
“On the contrary. It’s dirty. Gritty. Uncomfortable.” She punctuated her words by tapping her fork against the tablecloth. “I much prefer to be clean, brushed and pulled together.”
“In control.” He raised that eyebrow again, and she was struck anew by the brilliance of his green eyes. They were more dramatic than ever in this room full of colorless moonlight, like two emeralds blazing in a bed of seed pearls. “You like control, don’t you? You need it.”
“Of course I do.” Her voice was slightly thin. “Doesn’t everyone? Don’t you?”
He considered. “In its place, I suppose I do. I definitely enjoy control over my finances. And my enemies.” He paused. “But I place a higher value on freedom. I’ve always believed that a little judiciously placed abandon makes life worth living.”
Her smile felt brittle. “Judiciously placed abandon? Isn’t that a contradiction in terms? Is there such a thing?”
“Of course there is,” he said, leaning back. “Here’s a good example. You’ve decided not to dance with me.” He raised a hand to quiet her confused denial. “Yes, you have. I could see it in your eyes when I sat down. You froze up like the Snow Queen. And why? Perhaps because you’re afraid to get that close to me. You’re afraid you’d lose a little control, maybe melt that icy casing just a little.”
“Good heavens.” Her voice nearly trembled.
“What a preposterous—”
He didn’t seem to hear her. He simply lifted that devilish eyebrow a millimeter higher and kept talking. “But I have to ask myself—what would be wrong with that? It’s only a dance. Even if it was the steamiest dance since Salome, when the music stopped, you probably wouldn’t find yourself morally compromised, socially ruined or pregnant.” Grinning, he hoisted one long, lean leg over the other. “So you see, succumbing in this case would be a perfect example of judiciously placed abandon.”
She smiled reluctantly. And then, in spite of herself, she laughed.
She couldn’t help it. He made it all sound so ridiculous. And, she supposed, it probably was ridiculous to be so determined to keep him at arm’s length. He was just a man. No real threat to her, not in the long run.
She knew his type—the consummate flirt who found her reserve challenging, but who, having once conquered it, would yawn and prowl off toward his next victim.
So why did the idea of dancing with him still feel so dangerous?
“Goodness,”
