donate.” “Of course.” The other guy leered at her chest again. Bet Matt wouldn’t mind me borrowing her tonight. She stepped sideways, closer to Matt, creeped out by the guy’s wolfish grin and the montage of X-rated images flashing through his brain. Matt clasped her hand and said, “If you’ll excuse us.” He placed her glass on a passing waiter’s tray and led her toward the floor. She hesitated. Matt gripped her arm and propelled her through the crowd. He leaned close to her ear and whispered, “If you don’t dance with me right now, that guy will read it as a yes to you spending the night at his penthouse.” She whispered back, “All he did was look.” “He’s richer than God and fucks a different girl every night. I’m sure he’d be glad to add you to his dossier.” “Are you any different?” His lips thinned. “Yes.” Based on his closed look, that was as much as she’d get from him on this subject. “Fine.” Despite the resentment simmering in her blood, excitement thrummed through her as they neared the dance floor. Last year she’d won the national amateur Latin Dance championship. She loved moving on a dance floor. On their way through the crowd, she glanced up at Matt again. His stylishly disheveled black hair was just a tad too long, but not long enough to cover the small bad-boy silver hoop in his right ear. The earring didn’t mesh with the expensive tuxedo tailored to his body. Over the years he’d retained the panties-dropper sexy. That in combo with the power he now radiated ramped him up to devastating. And she wasn’t the only one to notice. She gritted her molars in annoyance as most of the women in the vicinity stopped to stare. The only one who didn’t seem to notice was Matt. A random thought from a woman sneaked into her brain, He never dances . A man thought, She looks like his first wife. He’d been married? She didn’t like that thought. At all. Once they reached the dance floor, he glanced down. “That guy wasn’t your type, anyway.” Heart racing, she tilted her head back to look up at the man towering over her. “And just who do you think is my type?” His gaze darted down to her mouth. Heat sparked in her belly, igniting the need to succumb to the white-hot connection between them. She didn’t know what she wanted more. To slap his face publicly and extinguish this connection forever, or his arms around her to keep this connection burning hotly. … Your type? Me. Matt could barely believe the gorgeous redhead he’d tried to locate for a decade was here. And almost in his arms again. Kat Ramsey in reality eclipsed every latent memory of their one night, and every fantasy his brain had conjured since. They needed to resolve the problem of that zinger of a curse, which had rendered every encounter with other women to be a disappointment. But at the moment he barely cared. He was so hard that it might push him past the breaking point. He might just drag her to a dark corner and kiss her until the firecracker smoldering beneath the surface broke free. He wanted to hear her cry out his name in pleasure again. “Smile. People are staring,” he whispered. A classic Sinatra song started, although the singer didn’t do the vocal part justice. He slid his hand around her waist and stepped them into the slow dance. Her body was stiff, but she didn’t trip or step on his toes. In fact, she moved so gracefully in sync with his lead that he suspected she’d had training. A tense smile touched her lips. “I heard someone back there say you don’t dance.” “It’s been a while since I braved stepping onto parquet.” “I guess I should be honored then.” She didn’t meet his gaze. “Perhaps I was inspired by the memory of a dance at an undergrad party long ago…” He trailed off. Her cheeks flushed a darker red. “Don’t get your hopes up for a repeat. Not happening.” “That might be a bit awkward, given our audience.”