staircase that led to the second floor. She knew from the blueprints that here she would find the library, offices and a long gallery full of priceless art. She had to find the staircase leading to the third floor, where the private rooms were located.
Only that staircase was closed for renovation. Sarah stood in the dark hallway, trying not to panic. If only that kiss hadn’t left her so confused and disoriented. So…unsatisfied. She raised her fingers to her lips, still slightly swollen.
Meet me at midnight.
His words echoed in her ears and she leaned against the wall a moment to collect herself. What if she hadn’t been here under false pretenses, but was actually an invited guest? What if they truly were two strangers dancing in the night? What if she met him at midnight…?
Sarah shook those thoughts from her head. She couldn’t afford to indulge in fantasies, no matter how tempting. She needed to save her grandfather. Grasping the picnic basket more tightly, she surveyed her surroundings, then took a left down the hallway.
Her planned route was useless now and the longer it took to find the right floor, much less the right room, the more nervous she became. When she thought she’d finally found it, she ended up standing in a huge linen closet.
“Okay, take a breath,” she muttered to herself, inhaling the starchy scent of neatly folded sheets and pillowcases. Closing her eyes, she pictured the floor plans once more in her mind. If she was in the second floor linen closet, then she needed to take a right at the next hallway, then a left. That should lead her to the servants’ staircase at the back of the mansion.
As she hurried down the hallway, she found herself wondering what Michael would do when she stood him up at the bandstand. Would he be angry? Disappointed? If so, she knew it wouldn’t take him long to find another woman to take her place.
But Sarah didn’t want to think about that, not when she could still taste his champagne kiss on her lips and still remember the gentle way he’d touched her. That’s what surprised her the most—his gentleness. So at odds with his ruthless reputation.
Sarah turned a corner and was relieved to see the servants’ staircase directly in front of her. Quickly mounting the steps, she could only hope she didn’t run into a servant along the way.
Once on the third floor, she took a moment to get her bearings. It was dark, the long hallway lit by a lone sconce at the far end. She was close enough to the light switch to reach out and flip it on, but she didn’t dare risk calling attention to her presence up here.
Especially with Michael Wolff on the prowl.
FIVE MINUTES TILL MIDNIGHT.
Michael stood off by himself in the crowded ballroom and sipped his fifth glass of champagne. He kept checking the time, watching the seconds drag by.
As usual, many of the guests had approached him for a financial donation. Michael’s growing reputation as a philanthropist made him the target for every get-rich scheme out there. Most people believed he gave his money away for tax purposes—a fallacy he didn’t bother to correct. Michael was no saint, he just didn’t need any more money.
So he gave it to foster-care programs and pediatric research hospitals. Made anonymous donations to local shelters and urban-redevelopment programs. Unfortunately, the size of those gifts had been leaked to the media, whose tenacious digging revealed him as the benefactor.
Now everyone in Denver knew Michael liked to give his money away. Both friends and strangers approached him for donations—to either their favorite charity or, more often, their latest business investment.
Tonight, those solicitations for cash also came with questions about the woman he’d kissed on the dance floor—questions he deftly avoided, not only to protect his privacy, but simply because he didn’t know the answers.
To his surprise, Michael discovered that he wasn’t the only one stumped by Little Red Riding Hood’s true identity. Many of the other guests, especially the single women, kept trying to place her. But, so far, none had been successful, which just made her more intriguing in his eyes. More mysterious.
Four minutes till midnight.
Even Blair had asked him about her. His grandfather’s wife usually paid little attention to his social life, probably because she disliked him as much as he disliked her. No, that wasn’t true. Michael didn’t dislike her. He just didn’t trust her. With good reason.
His gaze moved slowly over the ballroom until he spotted Mrs. Seamus Wolff, resplendent in her elaborate Cleopatra costume. A former hand model, she was tall and slender, with long, sleek black hair that fit perfectly with her exotic costume.
He didn’t have any actual proof that she’d arranged that accident on the stairs. Yet. But it wasn’t the first accident to befall his grandfather in the six weeks since he’d changed his will. Seamus had also careened into a ditch with his vintage Packard, thanks to a faulty brake line. Either accident could have been fatal—which would have made Blair Wolff a very rich woman.
Only thirty-four, Blair Ballingham Wolff had been married to his seventy-year-old grandfather for almost three years. She was wife number six. Seamus jokingly described himself as a serial husband, divorcing his wives when they got too old for him.
But the truth was that Seamus’s first five wives had taken the easy escape route after only a few months of matrimony, collecting the one-hundred-thousand dollars promised them in the premarital agreement. An unusual agreement in that they only received the money if the marriage lasted less than one year. If it lasted more than a year, they received nothing. So far, all of them had preferred taking the cash to living with an extremely cranky, albeit very rich, old man.
All of them except Blair. Her loyalty had impressed Seamus so much that he’d actually changed his will recently, leaving her a sizable portion of the Wolff estate, certainly much more than a measly hundred grand. But was Blair truly loyal to Seamus or just greedier—and deadlier—than his other wives? That’s what Michael intended to find out—before it was too late.
Three minutes till midnight.
He drained his glass, aware once again that the Wolff fortune proved both a blessing and a curse. He had more money than he could ever spend. Unlimited opportunities. Yet, just like his grandfather, he could never afford the one thing that every person on the planet sought. Love. Because he’d never know for certain if a woman truly loved him or just his well-padded wallet.
That didn’t mean he’d given up on women entirely. He definitely enjoyed female companionship, especially in his bed. As long as they understood that sex didn’t equal love or commitment. He always made that perfectly clear before embarking on any new relationship, though most women still believed they could trap a Wolff. So far, he’d proven them all wrong.
Two minutes till midnight.
His wolf costume prickled against the bare skin of his back. He resisted the urge to squirm against the wall, desperate for relief from the agonizing itch that had been aggravated by the heat-inducing dance with Red. He’d stared into her mossy green eyes—eyes as lush and mysterious as a virgin forest. And he’d been the one in danger of getting lost there.
He longed for another slow dance with Red. A private slow dance.
Michael let his gaze wander around the ballroom, but he didn’t see her scarlet cape anywhere. What kind of body did that cape hide? What color hair under that hood? What
