Dante Galván.
He was walking slowly, greeting people now and again, shaking hands with one older gentleman before acknowledging another.
Even from the terrace he looked too tall, too strong, too imposing. He didn’t creep through life, she thought faintly. He dominated it, dictated it, drove it.
How long she watched him, she didn’t know, but then slowly he turned, and as if aware of her, looked up. His gaze immediately riveted on her.
Her breath suddenly caught in her throat. She’d thought all men looked handsome in tuxedos, but Dante Galván defined one. The black silk tie set off his Roman nose and chin, the white shirt played up the bronze in his coloring and the elegant cut of the jacket gave him old-world glamour.
He was beautiful. Too beautiful.
His gaze seemed to embrace her. He was taking her in, studying every detail, from the strands of her loose silvery blond hair to the tips of her white satin heels, before inching up to rest on her silver sequin halter top with its plunging décolleté and skimpy coverage.
She was sure he could see beneath the flimsy fabric, was sure he was aware she’d gone braless. A peculiar curl of warmth centered in her belly, extending in bright tingling rays, heating her skin, gathering in her breasts and creating an ache deep within her pelvis.
She’d never felt such an intense physical response before—and all he’d done was look at her.
Daisy couldn’t move. Dante remained at the bottom of the staircase. She wanted him to climb the stairs, join her on the terrace, but he waited where he was.
Nervously she took a step down the marble stairs and then hesitated, nerves on edge. He wasn’t saying anything. He wasn’t moving. He was simply waiting for her.
She was nearing the bottom of the stairs. Her legs felt like Jell-O, but suddenly she didn’t think she could take another step. “Won’t you say anything?” Her voice sounded strangled.
“What do you want me to say?”
“Whatever you’re thinking.”
“Really?”
“Might as well tell me what’s on your mind. I know you asked me here tonight, and yet here I am with someone else—”
“I’ve been rejected before.” He was smiling faintly and his expression was wry.
“It wasn’t like that.”
“Do I dare ask about Kentucky Kiss?”
Her throat sealed closed. Heat burned across her cheekbones. “No,” she whispered.
“I see.” He cocked his head, studied her intently, his gaze so hard and real it was almost a physical thing. “That doesn’t leave us much to talk about.”
Daisy’s heart fell, plummeting to her stomach and then all the way down. She couldn’t explain it, couldn’t justify the disappointment, it just was. “You’re angry.”
“No. I’m curious, and a little surprised, but definitely not angry. How could I be angry with you? You look—” and his mouth twisted into a lazy, sinful smile “—incredible. Good enough to eat.”
It was true, Dante thought, as she took a step closer. She was putting ideas in his head, making him want to try things he was quite sure she’d never done before.
He watched her descend the rest of the staircase, focused on the swing of her hips, the shape of her legs, the slight bounce of her breasts. He’d bet a thousand dollars she wasn’t wearing a bra, and it made him ache to touch her, to slide his hands up her back, around her rib cage and cup her breasts. He wanted to feel her body, her skin, her incredibly lush curves.
“I’m here with an old family friend.”
“Carter Scott. Yes, I know him.” Dante couldn’t keep the contempt from his voice. “What does he want from you now?”
Daisy’s head jerked up. “How do you know? What do you mean?”
“The last time your father and my father talked, apparently your father mentioned that Carter had proposed. Your father was against it.”
“My father lets me make my own decisions.”
Dante glanced at her sleek fair head, her long silvery hair hanging straight to the dip in her back, the pale strands brushing the shimmering sequins at her narrow waist. “Has he proposed again?”
She drew herself back, blue eyes flashing with indignation. “That’s really none of your business.”
Her lips were the fullest, softest pink he’d ever seen. “He’s too old for you, Daisy.”
“He can’t be much older than you!” She flashed the words back.
He smiled and realized he’d found another American rebel.
The first American rebel hadn’t even been his, but one of his father’s girlfriends. Dante was ten when he met the first of his father’s many girlfriends, bumping into the beautiful blond American by the side of an exclusive Buenos Aires hotel swimming pool.
Kate was her name, short for Kathleen Lyons, heir to the United States East Coast Lyons chemical and plastic fortune. Smart, funny, breezy, Kate wasn’t impressed by the Galván money—she just loved being around Tino.
Kate didn’t last. None of the girlfriends lasted. Although eventually Dante met many other girlfriends, he remembered almost none except for Kate. And he remembered blond, smart, cynical Kate because she was nothing like his mother and nothing like the other proper women who were his mother’s friends. Kate was a rebel.
Dante had a soft spot for rebels.
Daisy Collingsworth was another rebel. “Maybe we shouldn’t talk. I think a dance would be better.”
“I’d rather wait and dance with Carter.”
Daisy had meant to prick his pride, and yet her words had the opposite effect. Dante laughed, a genuine laugh that exposed the smooth column of his bronze throat, and the rich sound rolled out, deep, sexy, very powerful. If all eyes weren’t watching before, they were now.
His burning gaze slid over her, settling on her mouth. “Liar. You want to dance with me as much as I want to dance with you.”
His suggestive tone sent shivers up and down her spine, and her breasts ached, nipples hardening against the cool mesh of her top.
Shyly she glanced up, her eyes skimming past his perfect mouth to the smoky golden warmth of his eyes. She saw her reflection there, and she saw something else, something altogether new. He wanted her.
He wanted her.
It was a heady realization, and she felt her heart slow, her lips part.
His head dipped, and he cupped her cheek. She felt shivery and alive, and instinctively she lifted her face to his, eyes on his lips.
“Daisy,” a voice interrupted, “your drink.”
Carter had returned. Daisy took the cocktail glass from him. Dante stepped back—but not very far.
“No champagne?” Dante said.
Carter looked momentarily confused. “Daisy, did you want champagne?”
Daisy shot Dante a dark glance. What was he doing? Why did he want to cause trouble? “This is wonderful. I’m happy with a cocktail.”
“I can get you champagne,” Carter said more forcefully. “I didn’t know you wanted champagne.”
“I don’t want champagne. I like my cocktail. Really.” She could happily dump her drink over Dante. He was standing there enjoying Carter’s discomfiture. Well, to hell with him. “Carter, would you like to dance?”
She