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she was feeling, she reached up and put her mouth to his. She felt him stiffen at the caress, felt the
awesome muscles tighten in his big arms and his massive chest.
That tensing puzzled her and she drew back abruptly, looking into eyes that frightened her. His
face was like carved stone, his eyes blistering, glittering, his jaw clenched, his breath coming in
heavy sighs.
They pulled up in front of the house, and he took the jeweler’s box from his pocket, tossing it
idly into her lap.
“T…thank you,” she managed.
“What for?” he demanded. “It’s paid for,” he added coldly.
She turned away, hurt, and reached for the door handle.
“Are you still planning to go out with that ex-news hound tonight?” he asked harshly.
She froze. “I did accept,” she reminded him.
“I want you back in the house by midnight,” he told her. “I’m not going to have my secretary
walking around in a yawning stupor because of late nights. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir,” she said through her teeth. “It’s clear.”
She got out of the car and marched into the house, oblivious to the heat, the sound of the Rolls
purring down the driveway—and the pair of dark eyes that watched her until she was out of sight.
Defiantly, she wore a new, exotic dress for the date, a swirling confection of aqua chiffon that
had a neckline that just escaped immodesty. She put her hair up into a loose topknot, leaving tiny curls
around her face, and loaded her throat and wrists with perfume. She paid more attention than usual to
cosmetics as well, and a stranger stared back at her from the mirror in her room.
“Wow,” Lillian said when she came downstairs, “who are you out to impress?”
“A comrade at arms,” she replied tightly. “An ex-reporter who makes me laugh, which is a nice
change for me.”
“Hmm,” Lillian said. “A new fella?”
“One of Mr. Devereaux’s employees, if we have to get technical about it,” came the reply. “And
a very nice man.”
“That reminds me,” Lillian said, “the Mister called while you were in the tub to say he wouldn’t
be in until late. He said to remind you about midnight—that make any sense?” she added with a
frown.
Dana flushed. “Oh, yes, it makes sense,” she replied, thinking she’d come home when she was
bloody well ready, and if he didn’t like it, he could lump it!
Lillian eyed her closely. “I don’t suppose you’d know why he was in such a bad mood? I asked
him if he was taking the dragon out, and he said, ‘hell, yes, he was,’ and that it was all your fault.”
She felt an empty sensation in the pit of her stomach. Surely, he hadn’t planned to take her out to
supper…?
The doorbell rang, cutting into the conversation, and Pat Melbourne was standing outside the
door in a stylish rust-colored jacket with matching shirt and dark slacks, and a warm smile.
He gave her a long wolf-whistle when he finished his thorough scrutiny. “Lovely lady, I feel
inadequate to escort a princess.”
She frowned thoughtfully. “Doesn’t that have something to do with lily ponds and magic spells?”
“And your friendly neighborhood frog,” he added with a grin. “Shall we proceed? My pumpkin
awaits without.”
“Wrong fairly tale,” she reminded him. “And, personally, I prefer unicorns to pumpkins.”
“I’ll remember.”
Unicorns. Adrian. She sighed as she got into the comfortable coupe with Pat. Everything seemed
to remind her of the dark prince, even the night. Her mind drifted back to that walk in the garden when
the white roses were all around them—to the lake and the feel of his big arms swallowing her on the
dance floor. She felt her heart leap. And then, there was today, and the bracelet. She’d worn it against
all her misgivings, and she touched it now, ran her fingers over that cold green fire that burned no less
than the feeling in her heart for the man who’d given it to her. It matched my dress, she told herself,
and turned her attention quickly to Pat.
“How did you get into reporting in the first place?” she asked him.
He laughed softly. “I was kidnapped by a wandering tribe of itinerant poets who sold me to an
editor,” he told her. “You have to admit it sounds more romantic than saying I went through four years
of journalism school and walked right into a job as a police reporter.”
“I was general assignments,” she replied. “I wasn’t sure I could handle the police beat.”
“It can get rough,” he recalled. “I covered a murder once and the suspect’s brother caught me in
a dark alley one night and beat me up. He was a professional fighter it turned out, and the publicity
hadn’t helped him any more than it had helped his brother.”
“Ouch,” she murmured. “Did it do any lasting damage?”
“Sure did,” he admitted with a grin. “It destroyed my faith in humanity.”
She laughed. “Were you at it long enough to get hardboiled?”
“Anybody who stays in it for more than three years full-time gets hardboiled,” he said quietly.
“You can’t keep caring with an amateur’s intensity—it’ll tear your guts out. You found that out, didn’t
you?”
She nodded. They were stopped at a traffic light, with the brilliant street lights and business
signs making visual fireworks all around them in the darkness. They highlighted the soft lines of her
face.
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