The Proviso by Moriah Jovan Page B

in her nose,
then out through the O of her lips. She did that several times, her
breasts swelling with each inhalation. His own breath caught in
response.
    Suddenly he found her looking straight at him again.
Deliberately, this time, and she held his gaze. Her mouth—that
cherry-kissed mouth with full lips that could probably work
miracles on a man’s anatomy—twitched. A corner of it turned up; not
quite a smile, not quite a smirk.
    Oh, no. She hadn’t forgotten at all.
    Adrenaline surged through him as he returned her
stare. The fantasies of his youth, the ones that had tortured him
with their wickedness, the ones he’d tried so hard to quell at such
great cost, curled around him. The predator in him surged and
howled, all traces of regret and jealousy gone. Bryce cocked an
eyebrow at her and she acknowledged him with a miniscule shift of
her shoulders and lowered eyelids.
    Miss Giselle Cox, whoever she was, promised the
fulfillment of every one of his long-denied yearnings. She was
dangerous—and he knew he’d give up everything he had to have
her:
    His pride.
    His net worth.
    His salvation.
    She put her glass on a passing waiter’s tray, then
turned without warning and sashayed, not toward him, but across
Kirkwood Hall to Sculpture Hall. She disappeared behind the
Christmas tree, then reappeared, her steps slow and studied, her
back straight and head high, as if she had all the time in the
world and nowhere in particular to go. He watched her progress
across the marble floor, deftly and graciously weaving through
clumps of chatters without fanfare.
    He followed her at some distance through the grand
hall, then through the sculpture room that was littered with
clusters of chatting people who stilled slightly as she glided by.
A couple of men started to follow her but happened to glance up at
Bryce; he merely had to raise an eyebrow at their impudence to send
them scurrying back to their cliques.
    A corner of his mouth turned up, grateful for his
scarred face for the first time ever.
    Then his eyes narrowed as he tracked her with a
hunter’s skill. Sebastian Taight had just become mistressless. He’d
deal with Knox Hilliard later—and Knox would lose.
    Finally she reached the staircase that led down to
the Bloch building, the hideous modern addition that marred the
landscape and lines of the original gallery. She smoothly descended
to the wide landing, but instead of going down the next set of
stairs to the new building, she turned right to go up the dimly lit
stairs to the European exhibits. Those collections were not on
display at this time of day and technically, people were not
allowed to go wandering the gallery at will, although they often
did.
    She unhooked the velvet rope that blocked off that
section of the museum, which didn’t surprise him. A woman who was
so sure of herself that she’d kiss a man she didn’t know and then
be surprised when it got turned back on her would do exactly what
she pleased, regardless of the obstacles.
    She stopped then and looked over her shoulder at
him, that same not-smile-not-smirk on her face. She raised one
eyebrow and deliberately dropped the rope on the floor. He ached in
ways he hadn’t since before the fire and his breath caught.
    Bryce stood transfixed as she ascended the staircase
step by deliberate step, her white skirt held in her right hand.
Her hips swayed. The short train of her black skirt slithered
behind her. Her delicate hand slid up the copper banister and
though half the room watched, as riveted as he, no one tried to
stop her.
    His feet moved of their own accord. He absently
excused himself through the crowd, irresistibly drawn after her as
if she were Calypso, ensnaring him with his own lust—
    —then found himself detained by some policy wonk who
not only didn’t notice that Bryce had other plans, but felt
entitled to the contents of his brain.
    Left or right? A few more of the terminally clueless
gathered around him. Which way would she go and