Man of the Hour by Diana Palmer

dark-haired agent with the wicked smile.
    “There are no hidden cameras here,” he returned. “Why would there be?” His silver eyes narrowed. “Which is just as well, because I don’t want anyone else to see you like this.”
    “For your eyes only?” she taunted. “Well, save it all for Daphne, Steve, darling. What do you want here? David just left.”
    “I know. I’m here to keep an eye on you while he’s gone.” Heshouldered away from the door facing. “You aren’t planning to cut your visit short and go back to New York, are you?” he asked bluntly.
    She didn’t want to answer that. Her ankle was killing her this morning, from the slight exercise it had been put through the night before. She could hardly walk on it. The thought of dancing on it made her nauseous.
    “Am I being asked to leave town?” she hedged.
    “No. Quite the contrary.” He stuck his hands into his pockets and studied her through narrowed eyes. “I think it might be better if you stay in Wichita. But don’t go out without David, will you?”
    “They shot at you, not me,” she reminded him, and had to choke down the fear the words brought back. He could have been killed. She didn’t dare think about it too much. “You’re really all right, aren’t you?” she added reluctantly.
    “I’m really all right.” He saw the concern she couldn’t hide, but he knew better than to read too much into it. She’d loved him once, or thought she had, before she decided that dancing was of prime importance. He stared at her with growing need. Dressed that way, she aroused him almost beyond bearing. He didn’t know if he could keep his hunger for her under control. That gown…!
    She stared down at her bare feet. “I’m glad you weren’t hurt.”
    He didn’t reply. When she looked up again, it was to find his silver eyes riveted to her breasts, to the pink swell of them over her bodice. The look was intimate. Hungry. She could almost see his heartbeat increasing.
    “Don’t, Steve,” she said quietly.
    “If not me, who, then?” he asked roughly, moving slowly toward her. “You won’t give yourself to anyone else. You’re twenty-three and still a virgin.”
    She gnawed her lower lip. “I like it that way,” she said unsteadily, because he was close now, towering over her. She could feel the heat of his body, smell the spicy cologne he wore. It was a fragrance that she’d always connected with him. It aroused her.
    “The hell you do. You waited for me. You’re still waiting.” His silver eyes dropped to her bodice and found the evidence of her arousal. “You can’t even hide it,” he taunted huskily. “All I have to do is look at you, or stand close to you, and your body begins to swell with wanting me.”
    She swallowed. “Don’t humiliate me!” she whispered tightly.
    “That isn’t what I have in mind. Not at all.” His hands came out of his pockets. They moved slowly to the smooth curve of her shoulders and caressed away the tiny spaghetti straps. His breath was at her temple, on her nose, her mouth. She ached for him in every cell of her body.
    “Steve.” She choked. “Steve, what about Daphne…?”
    “Daphne who?” he breathed, and his mouth settled on hers as his hands moved abruptly, sending the gown careening recklessly down her body to land in a silken lavender pool at her feet.

7
    R ight and wrong no longer existed separately in Steve’s tormented mind. Meg wanted him and he wanted her. All the pain and anguish of the past four years fused in that one thought as he felt her mouth soften and open under his. He kissed her until she went limp in his arms, until his own body went rigid with insistent desire. And only then did he lift his head to look at what his hands had uncovered.
    Meg felt the impact of Steven’s eyes on her bare breasts like a hot caress on her skin. She stood before him in only a pair of lacy, high-cut pink briefs, insecure in her nudity. But when her hands lifted