Vincent let her dance three more songs with Hunter, then the flushed and triumphant teenager went back to his group with Catherine on his arm. And he knew that Hunter's social stock just went up.

Good for Catherine. And Candy.

As he'd watched them dance together, he'd thought furiously. What had Catherine been doing there last night? If what Heather told Evan was true, then she'd only flown in that evening after the rehearsal. What had she been up to while crashing the party?

And why had she taken the risk of spending the night with him?

And why can't I take my eyes off of her?

It made no sense. Catherine seemed so innocent, so inexperienced, for lack of a better term. The Candy he had known had been sultry and sophisticated, and once they'd gotten naked. . .

Well, it was time he found out exactly what she was up to.

The sounds of a slow dance filled the air, and he went in search of Catherine, Candy, the dancer. Whatever she wanted to call herself, he had something to settle with her.

Catherine was still talking to Hunter and his group of friends when she felt a hand lightly touch her back. She didn't even need to turn around to know that it was Vincent.

"Thanks for the dance!" Hunter said, and she impulsively gave him a hug.

"You had some pretty great moves out there yourself. Save another one for me before tonight is over?"

Hunter grinned and nodded.

Then she turned to Vincent. And instantly, she felt uncomfortable with the way he was studying her.

"You promised me a dance," he said, and thought his tone was pleasant enough, there was something behind it.

You're being paranoid!

"So I did," she said brightly. "Let's get down to it!"

Let's get down to it!

Vincent remembered the last time she'd said those words, as she'd lounged back on the fur rug in his den. And he also remembered that incredible, incendiary chemistry between them. It was all he could do to not haul her off in his arms and kiss her senseless, right here on the dance floor.

And he was a man who had always prided himself on his control.

What a total laugh. His so-called control was going up in flames. How J.T. would laugh if he had any idea of what was going on right now.

How could you desire a woman and be pissed off at her at the same time? What kind of game was she playing with him? Why did a part of him really want to laugh, and another part of him want to be annoyed?

And how was he going to get her to admit that she was his Candy, his dancer?

His?

This was going to be a total challenge . . . and he found that he liked the idea. A lot.

He led her out onto the packed dance floor. With the slower music and more intimate dancing style, many of the older guests were now out on the dance floor with their partners. Catherine eased herself into Vincent's arms and once again had the strange feeling of coming home.

They danced in silence for a minute or so before she felt his hand smoothing it way down her waist, then resting on her right buttock. The dance floor was so crowded she doubted anyone noticed. But she did.

And it felt wonderful.

Stepping away slightly, feigning surprise, she glanced up at his face.

"What do you think you are doing?"

He grinned down at her. "Just taking a stroll through your garden."

"What?"

He moved so that his lips brushed her ear. "Your rose garden. The tattoo. Remember? I do."

Before she could help herself, she flashed back to the den, the flickering light from the fireplace, and the butterflies in her stomach as Vincent's lips brushed against the tiny tattoo on her buttock.

He knows.

She had no idea how he'd found out, but he knew who she was.

"I remember thinking you have the most perfect ass," he whispered, for her ears alone. "Such a turn-on."

Her body stiffened, but before she could pull away, he eased her closer.

"Hello, Candy," he whispered in her ear. "Now, before you try to escape, I want to ask you, why you were at the bachelor party last night pretending to be a stripper?"

"I wasn't."

"You were."

"Wasn't."

"Were."

"Suppose I was? Can't you see how ludicrous it sounds? What would I be doing there?" Gaining both confidence and momentum, Catherine decided to elaborate. "I'd just flown in from San Francisco, I was absolutely exhausted, and I hate flying over the holidays, so the first thing I'm going to do is sneak over to your house, dress up as a stripper, got to Evan's bachelor party and rock out? I think not!"

"You would if Heather asked you to. You're ruthless when it comes to the people you love. That's just the kind of friend you are. The same way you danced with Hunter."

One dance segued into the next, and they didn't even notice, they were so busy arguing.

"Vincent, just for arguments sake, why would Heather want me to do something like that?"

He tightened his grip on her waist. "Because she caught her last fiancé in bed with an old girlfriend, and, oh, I don't know, maybe she wanted to be absolutely sure she could trust Evan before she married him."

She swallowed. "Evan told you that?" She hated the fact that her voice seemed to come out in a squeak. Squeaking did not project confidence.

"He told me he was having a hard time getting Heather to trust him because of what that other jerk had done to her."

"Oh." She considered this. Vincent was awfully good at putting all the pieces together. Her excuses were running out.

He pulled her closer to him. "Catherine, I have a way we can solve this once and for all," he whispered in her ear. "We go to one of the bathrooms, into one of the stalls. You lift up your dress; show me your right buttock. No rose, I lose. If there's a rose on that cute little butt, I win. Deal?"

She stared at him. She had never met a man like Vincent Keller, and she suddenly realized he would not let the matter rest.

Well, the best offense is a good defense.

"I'm going to get into a bathroom stall with you, a total stranger. . ."

"Not so total after last night. . ."

"And lift my dress up? You've GOT to be kidding."

"Ha, I knew it! You're Candy!"

"And YOU'RE way out of line!" And with that, she wrenched herself out of his arms and marched off the dance floor.

Vincent watched her go, then slowly grinned. He did so love a challenge.

"What a woman!"

"Look," Catherine whispered to Heather after the cake cutting, searching for an excuse to leave and avoid Vincent, "I'm going to have to race out of here pretty soon, so have a wonderful honeymoon . . ."

"I saw you and Vincent arguing. Is everything OK?"

Peachy.

"Sure. We were just having a spirited debate. He's got quite a few interesting theories."

"He's a neat guy. You know, he was the one who finally convinced me I should take a chance on Evan and trust him."

Mr. Cynic?

"He did?"

"Yeah. He told me that he'd never seen Evan as crazy about a woman as he was with me, and that I should marry him and put him out of his misery."

"Wow."

"You know," Heather whispered, "it was kind of a fantasy of mine that you and Vincent would get together and . . ."

If you only knew how together we got.

"Nope. Not my type."

"Oh." Heather was clearly disappointed.

"Anyway, I've got to run, but I'll call you once you and Evan get back from the Bahamas and we'll talk then."

"Okay."

Cat hugged and kissed her friend. "One last favor?"

"Anything," Heather said.

"Just don't throw the bouquet anywhere near me, all right?"

Of course, Heather threw the wedding bouquet toward her at the speed of sound, and Cat automatically reached up and caught it.

Reflex action. Nothing to get upset about. Until she glanced up and saw Vincent smiling at her, then shaking his head. She promptly stuck out her tongue at him.

But she had the last laugh when he caught the bride's pink garter.

Heather changed into her traveling outfit, and the happy couple headed toward the limousine that would take them to the airport and their flight to the luxurious villa in the Bahamas. Everyone attending the wedding that had followed them outside lit sparklers and created a sparkling, fairy tale send off. The Bahamas had been her father's idea. Just as with the wedding, Heather's parents spared no expense on their honeymoon.

As Cat watched the sleek black limo turn out of the parking lot and into traffic, she breathed a sigh of relief. Nothing had spoiled Heather's perfect day.

And now it was time to get the hell out of Dodge.

As she walked back into the ballroom to find her velvet cloak, she promptly bumped into Vincent Keller.

"Vincent," she said, backing away from him.

"Time to run, huh?" He eyed the delicate blue paper bag Catherine had in her hand with the strangest look in his eyes. Almost predatory.

And pretty damn exciting.

"W-whatever do you mean?"

"You're going to run, the same way you ran this morning."

"I have no idea what you are talking about." As they walked along the hallway, she thought quickly. She'd have to call a cab, then double back to Heather's house to get her bag.

"I can give you a ride back to Heather's house. Clancy brought my car over for me."

"I don't think so."

"Scared of me, Catherine?"

"I'm scared of all your crackpot theories."

"I'm not . . ." Once again he cupped her chin in his hand. "Look, I'm not really good at all this sort of stuff. . ."

"What stuff?" she asked breathlessly.

"Romantic stuff. What women want to hear. But I've never promised a woman more than I can give her. All I know is that when I took one look at your beautiful hazel eyes and . . . something happened. I don't know what, but I know it was something."

"When?" she asked, confused.

"When I walked into the family room, and you were dancing. You looked up, and before you threw you bra at me, I looked straight into your eyes . . ."

She stepped back from him, breaking contact with his hand, her heart in her throat. "Oh, you LIAR! How could you know what color my eyes were! I was wearing a mask and . . ."

Catherine stopped, horrified.

Jig's up.
Checkmate.
If I were on that Survivor show, this would be the moment I'd be voted off . . . my torch snuffed out . . . the tribe has voted , Catherine . . .

"A purple mask," he said softly. "A Mardi Gras mask. It brought out the twinkle in those gorgeous hazel eyes."

"Don't." She put up her hand as if to physically ward him off.

"You were the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen," he whispered. Taking her hand, he pulled her up against him.

"Come home with me," he said, his lips close to her ear. "Come home with me tonight, please . . ."

For one awful, wonderful moment, she considered it. Then her eyes closed, and she remembered their conversation earlier, before the guests arrived.

Don't go trying to pretty this up and make it all romantic. I know what it was, and even knowing what it was, it was pretty incredible. The best sex I ever had in my entire life.

What was Vincent going to do, hire her to come out to his house and dance for him? And then he'd hire her for . . .

The thought of what that made her brought her up short.

She swallowed. Hard.

"Could you go get our coats? Mine's the blue velvet cape."

"I remember it." He lowered his head, and she just before he kissed her exactly what he was going to do. She gave herself over to the kiss, memories flooding her body as his lips covered and then expertly parted hers. As his tongue slid into her mouth, she shyly answered in kind, the erotic actions made her body go all soft and liquid, filled with feminine need.

The sheer intensity of his kiss and fierce masculinity behind it caused her toes to curl. His arm came around her, steadying her, offering her support. She was so close to his body that she had absolutely no doubts as to how much he wanted her. They were alone in the hallway, and she knew if he continued on, she wouldn't be able to resist him.

Vincent broke the kiss, then rested his forehead against hers for just an instant. "I'll be right back," he said, his voice not quite steady. "Wait here."

She waited, taking deep, steadying breaths, until he rounded the corner of the hallway before she took off like a bat out of hell. The evening air was absolutely freezing as she raced out the front door, though the snow had stopped. The frigid air jolted her silk-clad body out of its state of sexual arousal, as effective as a cold shower or a bathtub filled with ice cubes. Cat took a deep breath, and looked around. She saw Hunter behind the wheel of a battered orange Volkswagen, and she ran toward it.

"Hunter!" she yelled, and his head came around, his face breaking into a grin.

"Hey, Cat!"

She opened the passenger side door and flung herself inside. The heater, at full blast, felt like heaven to her cold skin.

"Can you get me back to Heather's in record time?"

"Sure thing!" He laughed as he put the car in gear. "What kind of trouble are you in now?"

She glanced back, just in time to see Vincent standing at the main doorway, both of their coats in his hand.

"You REALLY don't want to know."

He saw a flash of silvery blue silk against the evening sky, then saw Catherine hurl herself into the orange Volkswagen, her long skirts frothing around her legs. Then whoever was driving the bug shot out into traffic, while he saw Clancy and his car, backed up about fifteen cars from the exit.

Damn it! She'd bolted, just like this morning.

Well, there was nothing he could do about it right now. Shrugging into his winter coat and carrying her deep blue velvet cloak, Vincent headed toward his car.

Hunter got her to Heather's in record time, as promised. Catherine raced up the stairs to Heather's room, blessing the fact that she was pre-packed and ready to go. Feeling like the hounds of hell were on her heels and didn't want to risk taking the time to change, she reached in her bag for a jacket and sneakers, then zipped up the duffel bag. She ran back outside to where Hunter sat waiting, motor still running.

"You sure I shouldn't just call a cab?" she asked Heather's nephew.

"Nah," he said with new found confidence. "I can get you there in plenty of time for your flight."

He was as good as his word. Running inside with her carry-on, Catherine stood in the short line at the ticket counter, basically begging the young man behind the counter to give her the first flight to San Francisco that had an empty seat.

She didn't rest until she was on the plane. Cat was one of the last people to run aboard. She'd run to the gate just in time to board the plane, holding the long skirts of her dress in one hand, her duffel slung over her shoulder, clutching her small purse in the other hand.

"Must've been one hell of a wedding!" a guy called out as she passed him. His friends laughed.

Catherine didn't even look back.

When she finally fell down in her coach-class seat, it took her a moment to realize that all eyes on her, including the flight attendant's.

In her bridesmaid's dress, rosebuds twined in her hair, with her casual jacket and sneakers, she had to look like a fashion disaster. Definitely a don't, according to that famous Glamour magazine article.

"Don't ask," she said to one man in his thirties who was staring, and another passenger, a woman in her late fifties, simply started to laugh.