Escape for Valentine's: Beauty and the Billionaire / Her One and Only Valentine / The Girl Next Door

“Ready?” Sinclair asked, her eyes sparkling sapphires that matched the brilliance of the dress.

He took a breath and held out his arms.

“You need to remember,” he told her, watching them together in the big mirror. “From the minute you walk into the ball to the minute you leave, you’re on stage. Roger will be watching what you do and how you do it.”

“You’re making me nervous again,” she complained. But she glanced into the nearest mirror, then pulled back her shoulders and straightened her spine.

Hunter splayed his palm flat against her back. “Don’t be nervous. Look into my eyes. Pay attention to my hand. We’re in this together.”

She met his gaze, and longing catapulted within him. Other than a chaste peck on the cheek, he’d kept to himself since Kristy’s lecture. But now Sinclair was fully in his arms. The back of her dress dipped to a low V, and his thumb brushed her bare skin.

He felt her shiver at the touch, and her reaction ratcheted up his own desire. Damn. He had to get his mind on the dancing.

Hunter led her through the opening steps.

“Go back, Sinclair,” the instructor said. “Now left foot. Shoulders parallel. That’s good. Get ready for the turn.”

Hunter turned her, and Sinclair didn’t stumble. Hunter smiled at her achievement.

“Promenade,” said the instructor, and Hunter slipped his arm around Sinclair’s waist, settling his hand above her hipbone.

“Good start,” said the instructor. “Now, take it away, Hunter. Let’s see what we’ve got to work with.”

“Watch out,” Hunter smiled at Sinclair, pulling her with his fingers, then pushing with the heel of his hand. She moved to the right, then the left, then backward, then into a turn. And she stumbled.

“Again,” said the instructor, and Hunter started over.

She got it right. Then nailed it again.

After four times through the pattern, Hunter altered the ending and caught her by surprise.

“Hey,” she protested.

“Stick with me. It’s boring if we never do anything new.”

“We never do anything at all, anymore,” she muttered under her breath.

He didn’t think he could have heard her right. “Excuse me?”

“Nothing.”

He switched her to a cuddle position. He leaned down, intending to murmur in her ear. She wanted to flirt? He was there.

“Head high,” the instructor called.

Hunter corrected his posture and caught her smirk.

He went back to the basic pattern, then changed it up, then whirled her through an underarm turn, her skirts flaring around her knees.

“You are absolutely gorgeous,” he whispered.

“Thank you,” she said on a sigh. “But I’m tired of being gorgeous.”

The song faded to an end.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

She fingercombed her hair. “Restaurants and dances and fancy clothes are all well and good. But I want to kick back. Maybe hop into sweats, watch a sappy movie and cook something for myself.” She pouted prettily. “I miss cooking.”

“I don’t miss cooking.”

“That’s because you’re spoiled.”

“I’m not spoiled.”

She looked pointedly around the big, mirrored room. “We’re having a private dance lesson.”

The music started, and he took her into his arms once again, not fighting his feelings so much anymore.

“That,” he said as he squared his shoulders and checked their lines, “is because I’m spoiling you.”

She seemed to contemplate his words as the notes ascended. “That is also true.”

Hours later, Sinclair glanced around at the huge arched windows, the kitchenette and the overstuffed leather furniture. “All this time you’ve had a kitchen?” she asked Hunter.