On a Wild Night (Cynster 8)

Once the trolley was positioned and the dishes displayed, Martin dismissed the man and took his seat. Amanda helped herself to the various delicacies; he reached for the bottle and filled her glass, then his.

"You've been here before."

Across the table, her eyes quizzed him.

"On occasion." He had no intention of letting her imagine he was any less dangerous than society had painted him.

Her lips curved; a dimple winked. She raised her glass. Obligingly, he lifted his and clinked the edge to hers.

"To my adventures," she declared, and drank.

To sanity. He took a fortifying swallow.

"Can we go out and about the gardens?"

He took another gulp. "After we've eaten."

She applied herself to the food with unfeigned appreciation. However, other than commenting on the culinary skills of the unknown cook, she did not speak. Prattle. Fill his ears with the usual babble, as women were wont to do.

He found her reticence disconcerting. Disorienting.

As he tended to keep silent, having long ago discovered the advantage that conferred, the ladies he escorted usually felt obliged to fill the vacuum. Consequently, he was never consumed by any wish to know what was going on in their heads; if they were talking, they weren't thinking.

Now, however, Amanda's silence focused his attention as no feminine discourse ever would. What was going on under her golden locks? What plot was she hatching? And why?

That last nagging question rang warning bells. Why did he want to know? He mentally shrugged the quibble aside-he definitely wanted to know why she'd selected him as her partner in adventure.

On a sigh of pleasant repletion, she laid down her knife and fork. He drained the last of the champagne into his glass and sat back, sipping.

Across the table, she met his gaze. "It's odd-although we're in the gardens, you can't hear the crowd."

"The bushes absorb the sound." Including any sound from the isolated booths. Pushing back his chair, he stood. "Come. Let's take the air."

Amanda was very ready to do so; the strain of not giving way to nervous babble was wearing her down. Outside among the crowd there would be plenty of distraction, and ease for her overstretched nerves. Sharing an enclosed space with a large, intensely predatory male, one who looked like sin personified, was not a calming experience; she knew she was safe, yet her senses insisted on screaming she was not.

In her cloak with the hood up, shielding her face, she left the booth on Dexter's arm. They retraced the path, then took another turning. It opened into one of the main walks. Immediately, they were surrounded by couples and groups all flown with good cheer. As they walked toward the rotunda, the center of the garden's entertainments, the crowd steadily increased.

It was not a Gala Night, so when they reached the area where couples were waltzing, there was space enough for Dexter to draw her into his arms and steer them into the swirling throng.

She glanced at his face; he was watching her. He studied her eyes, her expression, then had to look up as they turned. The lanterns bobbing overhead sent light, then shadow, dancing across his features. Illuminating the strong patrician lines, then veiling them.

Following his lead without thought, she let her mind drift, allowed her senses to appreciate as they would. She was aware of his strength, of the ease with which he steered her, of the sudden tensing of his arm, drawing her protectively closer when more couples joined in and limited their space.

Those about them were of all walks, all types, including others of their ilk, ladies and gentlemen enjoying an evening in the gardens, others even more like them with the lady cloaked and in some cases veiled. A frisson of daring tickled her spine; for the first time in her life, she was flirting with the illicit.

Dexter's gaze returned to her face. She met it boldly, her lips curved, awareness naked in her eyes. They continued to twirl, neither willing to look away, to risk missing the next moment. Breathing became a secondary concern; absorption in the moment was all.

Magic shimmered in the shifting light, touching them fleetingly, teasing their senses. It was as mesmerizing an experience as she'd hoped for, twirling through the shadows with him. They were surrounded, but they might as well have been alone, so intent on each other were they.

The music ended and they slowed; she broke the contact, mentally reaffirmed her plan. She'd lured him this far; now she had to tempt him to take the next step.

Martin noted the faint crease between

her brows. "Would you care for some punch?" What was she plotting?

"Please." She flashed him a brilliant smile, banishing the frown. "I haven't been here for years."

"I doubt the punch has changed." He took two cups from a passing waiter, handed her one, watched her sip. Watched red liquid stain her lips, watched her tongue slide across the lower.