Dangerous love

He want me

Even at night, heat radiated from the macadam surface of the street. She'd begun her search on the waterfront, asking directions to the KingSouth Broadway neighbourhood

known as Kingston's Row. New money mingled with newer here.

The homes were stately, illuminated with street lights not available yet too much of the city. A different sort of privilege than the one to which she was accustomed, born of money rather than history, profit rather than name.

She stopped before Travis Grant's estate. and the security guard let her in, she walked towards the building and glanced around its environment, It had a quiet elegance that appealed to her. Four graceful columns supported the front porch, and four more on the balcony directly above. The moonlight textured the stone walls and cast deep violet shadows

beneath the huge old trees that hung close over the roof.

At another time, the house might have seemed welcoming.

Tonight, however, the sound of men's voices raised in bawdy laughter spilt out the open windows. She flinched at the

sound of breaking glass, followed by a high-pitched squeal of

female laughter.

"Oh, no," she whispered.

She almost turned away. But then she thought about Joel, and what awaited her at his hands. Straightening her shoulders,

she walked up to the door and pressed the doorbell.

The door swung open almost immediately. A burly man stared out at her, his open mouth a dark patch of astonishment in his

red beard.

"What the hell?” he stammered.

Irene knew her clothing was soiled and torn, and that her hair hung down her back in a wild mass. But she'd been born a vale, and no matter what the world might think of her now, she was still a lady. Her chin came up.

"I would like to see Travis Grant, please."

"He's entertainin'."

Laughter blasted out from the back of the house, and the sound of more glass breaking. Irene did not look away from the

man before her. "That is quite evident, sir. "But I have urgent business to discuss with him, and I must see him immediately."

“That so?” He looked her over. "Well, ain't for me to say a pretty woman ain't welcome in this here house. You go on in, miss, and if Travis doesn't want you here, he'll be the one to tell you."

"Thank you."

She stepped inside. Electric light lit the room but failed to warm her. She repressed the urge to rub her arms as she followed

the bearded man to the back of the house. A pair of polished oak doors led to what Irene thought must be the ballroom. Her

guide pushed them open, then waved her through.

She stepped into chaos. This was the ballroom, as she'd thought, but at least a dozen long tables had been set up. Islands

of food lay on the polished wood hams and roasted chicken,

bread and vegetables, and fruit.

Men lined the tables, rough and brawny-looking, seeming more interested in drinking than eating. The dozen or so women were all of the sorts whose favours are bought, not won. A frightening scene, and not one that promised an easy reception.

Irene swallowed hard, gathering her courage. Whatever happened here would be better than Joel.

Her gaze fastened on a man who sat at the far end of the room. She instinctively knew she'd found Travis Grant.

He seemed to fill the room with a vitality that went beyond his obvious good looks. She could feel his force even at this

distance. His face was starkly beautiful in a rugged, sharp-hewn way. The light from the chandeliers picked up bronze streaks in his tawny hair and even cast golden glints in the depths of his grey-green eyes. This was a hard man, she thought, one who knew what he wanted and went after it ruthlessly.

Good, she thought. Then he could keep her from Joel. If he chose-only if he chose.

Then she noticed the woman sitting beside him. Blond, lush, with a face that had a vivid beauty but no sweetness, she clutched his arm with obvious possessiveness. His mistress, no doubt.

Irene squared her shoulders, pushing away the sudden weak news in her limbs. The mistress didn't matter, nor did the crowd

of drunken men. Nothing mattered. Travis Grant was the only man who could protect her from Joel she would have gone to him if it had cont her haul

Taking a deep, calming breath, she stared across the room.

Travis wasn't enjoying the revelry.

Strange, because he usually did. Perhaps it was because of Sofia, who had come uninvited and unwanted and had

insinuated herself beside him Or perhaps it was the feeling of something hovering close

by, a hair-prickling sense that something was about to happen.

He'd felt it many times during his thirty-three years. Sometimes

it meant disaster, sometimes not. But he'd learned to pay attention to it.

"Travis!" one of his men shouted, "A toast!"

"A toast, a toast!" the others roared,

He shook off his dark mood. His men had worked hard and loyally and deserved his participation in their celebration

Disengaging himself from Sofia's grasp, he raised his glass high. "To the best crew of bully boys on the waterfront and a sleepless night for Joel Robertson!"

Then he saw a woman walk into the room. Their gazes locked, and he found himself staring into amber eyes deep enough to drown in. Instinct brought him to his feet and kept him there as she walked toward him.

She was small in stature, although her prideful carriage made her seem taller. Tiny she might be, but there was nothing of

a woman lacking in her, she was sweetly curved, with full breasts and a slim waist. Her skin seemed to glow with a light of its

own, her face a pale and perfect oval against the mass of glossy,

blue-black curls. For all the paleness of her cheeks, her mouth was red and ripe, with a sensual fullness to the bottom lip that

made an ache start deep inside him. Yet, she was unmistakably a lady despite the rumpled gown and torn clothes.

A lady to look at, very definitely a woman made for a man's touch. Secrets lurked in the depths of those long-lashed golden

eyes. A man might love her for a lifetime and never quite know all of her

She walked toward him, passing through the clot of drunken men in their suits without a glance to the right or the left. One man in a black suit with black eyeglasses approached her, it seems to be his bodyguard, she merely lifted her chin and stared at him until he stepped aside.

A dangerous woman.

Travis wanted her. Suddenly, illogically, powerfully. The din around him faded, and he was aware only of her. Something

that felt like destiny settled in his heart.

"You are Travis Grant?" she asked,

Her voice was low, with a slight throatiness that appealed to him. His mind urged caution even as his baser instincts

responded to her

"I am," he said. "Who are you?"

She took a step closer. Her gaze was as direct as a man's and he couldn't see the slightest trace of coquettishness in her

eyes. It intrigued him; few women had looked at him without

interest.

"My name," she said, "is Irene Robertson."

Her words caused a ripple of conversation in the room.

Travis didn't bother to hide his astonishment; never, in his wildest imaginings, would he have thought to see a Robertson in his home. And certainly not this one.

"Irene Robertson," he murmured.

He'd heard of the notorious Irene Robertson; everyone had.

Rumours abounded of her many lovers, the scandalous parties, and the thirst for finery that had bankrupted her husband.

Travis studied her, trying to see the tawdriness beneath the beauty, but those marvellous golden eyes revealed nothing.

He felt strangely disappointed, as though he'd picked up a pearl and found it to be a cheap imitation. It narrowed his eyes and

heightened his suspicion, but did nothing to cool his blood.

Robertson she might be, unfaithful and greedy and false, but as he stared at her lovely face, he knew he still wanted her.

"Why have you come, Mrs Robertson?"

"To speak to you. Privately, if I may."

"Whatever you have to say can be said before my friends."

For a moment, he thought she might turn away. Then she nodded, a regal inclination of the head that had nothing of

submissiveness in it.

His instincts all begged for caution now, as he was so intrigued. She seemed completely composed and serene. He'd

never known a woman so utterly without nerves. He found himself admiring her for it and wanting her even more.

"It is my understanding that you and my brother-in-law are competitors," she said.

He smiled. "That can be considered an understatement, Mrs Robertson."

"Then you wouldn't mind taking something from him, something he wants rather badly?"

In a flash of perception, he knew why she'd come. Knew it, because he wanted the same thing. And because he was a man

who yielded to no force other than his own will, he would not make this easier for her.

"And what might that something be?" he asked. Coolly, as though the desire wasn't beating fire in his blood,

"Me," she said with no lessening of her composure: "He want me."