EXCERPT

The flash of green was what caught his eye first. It was a vibrant shade that screamed out style and independence. It took courage to wear something so flamboyant in an environment where black spandex and blue denim were the norm, and Caleb respected that kind of audacity.

But for as much as the color and the cut of the dress, and the toned figure beneath it caught his attention, it was the face that held him. The enormous brown eyes set deeply above a pair of delicately chiseled cheekbones held his gaze like magnets. And when, at last, he finally caught her eye, he felt her gaze like a lightning bolt zinging directly to his soul.

She looked away too quickly, but he had already made his decision. He had to meet this woman. He had to speak to her, and he had to do it immediately.

“Hey!” called the secretary whose name he’d already forgotten. “Where you going? I thought we were going to dance?”

“Sorry,” he called back just because it was polite. “I just remembered I have an appointment.” Under his breath he added, “With destiny.”

He heard her mutter “asshole”, but was already halfway to his target and had no intention of being delayed.

Although she must have known he was focused on her, the lady in green kept her attention riveted to her glass. He smiled, wondering if perhaps, despite the façade of flamboyance, she was actually shy.

He’d find out soon enough.

He leaned against the bar beside her, and allowed his gaze to travel slowly up and down the full length of her. She kept her eyes straight ahead until, apparently, she decided his rudeness warranted comment.

“What the hell are you staring at?” she shot out.

He sipped from his drink and answered coolly, never averting his gaze. “An anarchist, apparently. I’ve never seen one in here before, and I think you warrant study.”

That stopped her. She blinked those enormous eyes several times before giving in and asking the inevitable. “Anarchist? What are you talking about?”

He frowned, tilted his head her way. “Well, just look at you. Your choice of attire, your choice of beverage—you obviously have no regard at all for the conventions and protocols of the meat-market scene.”

Incredulity quickly shifted to intrigue. Apparently getting into the spirit of things she raised her glass and held it up to his. “So, it’s all right for men to drink whiskey, but not women, is that it?”

“Exactly. Women drink Irish cream or Zinfandel. They do not drink scotch on the rocks.”

She took a moment to consider that before skimming a hand down her dress, over the soft swell of breast and rib cage, to rest at the delicate indentation just above her hip. The move was innocent, yet sensuous and surprisingly provocative. His cock began to throb.

“And the dress…” She gave him a coy look. “It’s…too much?”

“Definitely. Way outside the acceptable black to beige palette of shades.”

She sipped from her drink, apparently considering his comments. “And all this has led you to the conclusion that I’m an anarchist.”

“Yes. But don’t get me wrong. I have only the deepest respect for anarchists.”

“Really? Are you a closet anarchist, by any chance?”

“No, actually. I’m quite forthright about my political agenda. I belong to an organization.”

She barely suppressed a snort of laughter. “An anarchy organization.”

“Exactly.”

“With a political agenda.”

He nodded, his expression stoic. But he couldn’t hold it for long. He met her eyes and a moment later they both burst out in giggles.

“Well,” she said when she’d caught her breath, “that has got to be the most original pickup line I’ve ever heard.”

“Us anarchists are nothing if not original.”

“Oh, stop,” she said, laughing all over again, “and tell me what you really think of this dress.” She slid off her bar stool and turned, very slowly, for his viewing pleasure. The back of the dress was no less surprising than the rest. It dipped low, to within a centimeter of the crease of her ass and he had to make a concerted effort not to reach out and caress that firm, perfect curve.

She completed her turn and when she faced him again, she stopped, her breasts barely a breath from his chest.

“I think,” he said on a low growl, “that if we don ‘t dance or do something, that perfect dress is going to wind up in a perfect pile of silk on the floor at your feet.”

“Oh. Well, then I guess we should dance.”

“Yes.” He grabbed her hand and dragged her mercilessly toward the dance floor. “We should definitely dance.”

 

And he could dance.

She remembered Gwen telling her that. During their long telephone conversations Gwen would often rave about her husband. Telling Joss how, even after ten years of marriage, she and Caleb still enjoyed going out on “dates”. At least once a month they would get a sitter so they could spend a night on the town enjoying good food, fine wine, and really hot music. Gwen’s voice always got all…fuzzy when she talked about her husband, telling Joss how sexy and talented Caleb was. Never having met her friend’s husband face-to-face, Joss had always thought Gwen’s opinion was slightly tainted by her love for the man.

And perhaps that was part of it, but now she saw the truth of it all. Dressed simply in jeans and a black t-shirt, Caleb was, indeed, one of the sexiest men she’d ever met. And one of the saddest. Even now, as he danced like the devil, his hips moving in sexy sync with the music, his smoky gaze riveted on her, she could see it in his eyes. It lurked there, like a ghost. Or perhaps, more accurately, like three ghosts.

Unexpectedly he reached out and wrapped an arm around her waist, drawing her in tight against him and forcing her to follow his movements.

“I’m Caleb,” he said over the music. “I’ve never seen you here before.”

So that confirmed it. He didn’t recognize her.

 

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