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overlaid with a man’s pinstripe vest. She disdained the frivolity and lack of function in most women’s fashions, but rued the lack of color and variation in men’s. Over the years she’d developed a personal style that borrowed from both sexes.
    A gold chain belt, her favorite hoop earrings, and a half-dozen bangles embellished her evening ensemble, but she could envision the other women decked out in slinky designer dresses, the men in starched shirts and sport coats—she glanced at Mark—the way he was dressed.
    “Nobody lives here. I’ll get your door.” He unfolded his tall frame.
    That again. She ticked off the seconds as he strode to the passenger side. She was quite capable of opening her door. But to survive the evening, she would have to compromise. So, she would allow him to assist her in and out of the car, and at the end of the party, he could concede dating was out of the question. That was fair.
    Lined by topiary shrubs, pavers meandered to the mansion’s entrance. She was admiring a stand of willow trees weeping over the manicured lawn when her heel slipped into a crack. Mark caught her before she could do more than lurch. “Thank you,” she said. “I didn’t see that.”
    “The path doesn’t take into account women’s shoes,” he said.
    She cursed her inattentiveness, because she’d given him an excuse to wrap his arm around her waist. The pressure was light, the distraction heavy. Her skin tingled, not only where his hand rested but everywhere else too: her back, her neck, her sex, her breasts. She thanked her foresight for donning the vest, because she needed the protection—she suspected her nipples were leading the charge.
    “Careful.” He tightened his hold protectively as they ascended the stone steps to the double front doors. She steeled her spine.
    “Is that a badge reader?” She frowned at the small metal box mounted on the wall.
    “Yes. It’s used when members need access but the building is closed.”
    “Members of what?”
    Atop the steps, he spun her to face him and grasped her waist. So close, his damnably seductive scent filled her lungs, and she could see the shadow of a beard already starting. Her itchy palms and sensitive nipples remembered well the sandpapery texture. She clenched her fists. He stared into her eyes. Desire glinted, but a somber intensity had replaced the humor she’d expected to see.
    “After much consideration as to where to bring you tonight, I decided you needed to get to know me in a meaningful way as well as how dating me will affect you.”
    He didn’t present it as an if but a certainty. Typical.
    “To answer your earlier question, this isn’t a private residence but the headquarters for an association I belong to, the Rod and Cane Society.”
    She dropped her jaw. “You don’t mean that organization I read about in the Sentinel? About men who beat up women?” The entire city had been abuzz about the column Cassidy Myles had written. WAN had presented a public lecture against the practice.
    “Men who discipline women.”
    “ You’re a member of Rod and Cane?” He’d already said so, but she sought verification. Though he hadn’t tightened his grip, the hands that had seemed so protective, so stirring, now seemed more like shackles.
    “Yes.” He met her gaze, unflinching, unapologetic. She might well have asked him if he’d ever been a Boy Scout.
    “You hit women?”
    “I spank ,” he said, like it was something entirely different. “For discipline—and to enhance erotic pleasure.”
    It made sense now. She swallowed. “That’s why you suggested Bottom’s Up, isn’t it?” She was hyperaware of his touch. He knew what he was doing, had accurately predicted her reaction. If he hadn’t been holding her, she likely would have bolted.
    He nodded.
    She glued the pieces together. “You’re saying…you want to spank me ?”
    “Yes.”
    Before she could recover from her shock, he ushered her into the den of sexist