The Tycoon's Desire: Under the Tycoon's Protection / Tycoon Meets Texan! / The Greek Tycoon's Virgin Mistress

Her brother gave her a knowing look. “Artful omission is more like it.”

Allison dropped her arms in exasperation. “Whatever.”

“And, yes, believe it or not, I did have to threaten and cajole Connor,” Quentin went on. “He initially told me to call you. I think the only reason he eventually said anything at all was that I’d already found out more or less what happened from the police.”

So maybe Connor hadn’t gone racing to her brother with the news.

“I must say, I agree with Quentin,” her mother put in. “Connor seemed very reluctant to go into much detail about the shooting when your father and I asked him about it. Frankly, I think he wanted to spare us unnecessary worry.”

“And, by the way,” her father added, “Connor is not the one who told us about the threat you’d received in the mail. That was something that the police mentioned to Quentin when they called him.”

She looked across the ballroom and her eyes met Connor’s. The look on his face said he was debating whether to walk over. She shook her head almost imperceptibly. She didn’t need his help handling her family.

She did owe him an apology though—at least for jumping to the conclusion that he’d raced to her family to blab about the shooting.

Sitting next to Connor at dinner was torture, Allison thought. Her family, fortunately, was sitting among guests at other tables. Otherwise, it would have been much harder to pretend interest in the mundane chitchat being carried on at her table.

She took another bite of her dessert. Mercifully, the guest on her left had just excused himself to say hello to people he knew at another table.

She itched to hash things out with Connor. She wanted to apologize, yes. At the same time, though, she was still piqued about the high-handed way he’d acted after the attack in the parking lot. Surely he owed her an apology as well?

She stole a look at him. He was chatting with the guest on his right, the wife of a Congressman. Connor’s slightly rough-around-the-edges quality was set off tonight by his tuxedo. The juxtaposition was incredibly sexy and, she noted sourly, apparently appreciated by the Congressman’s wife as well.

The stab of jealousy brought her up short. She was spared having to analyze the emotion, however, because Connor took that moment to turn to her.

“Dance with me?” he asked. His lips were curved upward but his tone was mocking. “I think we can survive it, don’t you?” He nodded around their table at the empty seats and the couple getting up at the other end. “Besides, it will look odd if we didn’t take at least one turn around the room.”

She nodded and let him help her rise from her seat. The dance floor might finally afford her the opportunity and privacy to get her apology over with.

When they were out on the dance floor, he drew her to him for the start of a slow song. If she’d been dispassionate, she would have said his touch felt light but firm. But, since she was far from feeling detached, his touch—from their bodies brushing to his hand at her back guiding her—was causing waves of pulsating sensation to radiate outward from the points of contact.

For a while, they danced without speaking, gliding across the dance floor to a slow and sweet song until the temptation to rest her head on his shoulder became palpable.

She gave herself a mental shake. She had things to say to him and she’d better get on with it.

Before she could say anything, however, he stirred the hair at her temple with his breath and murmured, “Silence becomes you.”

She looked up with a start and saw the mocking laughter in his eyes. She’d been practically swooning in his arms—while thinking that she had to apologize to him—and he was mocking her! She decided the apology she owed him could wait a little longer. “Humility would become you but I don’t see you exhibiting any.”

“That’s my girl.” He had the nerve to laugh outright. “I was wondering where that temper of yours had gone. You seemed as deflated as a dead balloon during dinner.”

Well, Allison thought, so much for her attempt at seeming at ease during dinner. “Quite the one for compliments tonight, aren’t you?”

“Is that what you want? Compliments?” he asked. Though his tone was still mocking, it contained a hint of seriousness.

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

He cocked his head, pretending to think, before clearing his throat and looking down at her. “Your eyes have the color and sparkle of aquamarines, your hair the darkness and luster of a night sky—”

“Stop.” Even knowing he was teasing, his words sent a ripple of liquid pleasure through her.

“Why?”

“Because we’re in a room full of people.” And she couldn’t take anymore.

“Ah.” His eyes gleamed. “Haven’t you ever heard that dancing is the vertical expression of a horizontal desire?”

He was telling her? She was practically going up in flames, incensed yet aroused by their banter.

“So how am I doing? Am I as good as Slade?”

“Who?”

“Preppy boy.”

She must have continued to wear a blank look, because he added impatiently, “Mr. Make-Love-Not-War.”

“That’s Makepeace,” she said, correcting him.

“Same thing.”

“And his name is Sloan, not Slade.”

“Yeah, whatever. Were Makepeace’s compliments as good?” He leaned closer to whisper in her ear. “I bet he didn’t turn you on, petunia.”

He was impossible. Forget the apology. She figured he owed her one by this point, but she was willing to consider the two of them even if it meant she could get rid of him now.

His lips turned up a notch. “The look on your face is saying you want to kick me in the shins.”

“And some other places.”

“You’re too fiery for a milksop like Makepeace.”

The song they were dancing to faded into another slow tune. “I’ll be the judge of that.”

Connor cast her a disbelieving look. “Seems to me you’ve already made up your mind. Otherwise, you wouldn’t still have a thing for guys from the wrong side of the tracks.”

One guy in particular, but she wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of knowing that. Especially since he seemed to be taking pleasure in baiting her. “You know,” she said, her voice dripping disdain, “I must have been crazy even to have thought I owed you an apology.”

She had the satisfaction of seeing him look taken aback for an instant. That expression was quickly replaced by one of sardonic amusement however. “I can think of many reasons why you’d owe me an apology, petunia. So why don’t you narrow it down for me and tell me what in particular spurred this fit of remorse?”

She gritted her teeth. The only remorse she was feeling at the moment was at not having clobbered him. But, instead, she said, “I got a call from Quentin on the morning after the incident in the parking lot. He seemed to know all about what had happened without my telling him.”

“So naturally you thought I was the one who called to fill him in,” he supplied.

“It was a logical assumption to have jumped to under the circumstances,” she said defensively.

He arched a brow. “Logical because I’m an untrustworthy snitch where you’re concerned, is that it?” His lips tightened. “Ever since I lied to you and went to your folks with the story of you at the biker bar when you were seventeen. It goes as far back as that, doesn’t it?”