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toward the wing chair beside the piano
as she talked. She felt a restless need to be moving; but more than
that, she felt a need to put some distance between herself and
Samuel. There was a connection between them; she could feel the
tug. And connections were dangerous. She sat in the chair, tucking
her feet up and settling her skirt over her legs. “And he made sure
that I loved them, too. I was taking voice lessons before I could
read. He had visions that I would be one of the great
singers—another Mariah Carey. The closest I ever came to singing
fame was winning the Jersey Queen contest.”
    “Jersey Queen? As in New Jersey?”
    “No. As in cows, Jersey cows.” She saw his
shoulders shake. “Go ahead. You can laugh. We thought it was pretty
darned funny ourselves. And it was a convenient way to win a
scholarship. I was eighteen, and I headed abroad to study.”
    She searched his face, and thankfully saw
nothing except genuine interest.
    “I sang and danced to that song. It’s been
Daddy’s favorite ever since, and he takes great pride in having me
repeat my Miss Jersey performance. I haven’t the heart to turn him
down.”
    Samuel was drawn into her story. He pictured
Molly at eighteen, singing that torch song. Had she been as
beautiful then as she was now? And as deadly?
    He drew a ragged breath. In the last few
minutes he’d seen exactly how much he was his father’s son. It had
been a flashy woman who had enticed his father, who had made him
give up a wife and two children and the respect of an entire town.
Samuel would do whatever it took to keep from being another Taylor
Adams.
    He hardened his heart and his voice. “Does
the song have a name?”
    “
Naughty Baby
.”
    “It fits.”
    There it was again, she thought. That remote,
cold look that made her want to shake him.
    “You don’t approve of me, do you,
Samuel?”
    “Quite frankly, no.”
    “Is it the dress?” She lifted the hem of her
skirt and let it float back around her. “The jewelry?” She touched
the baubles at her neck. “The tap-dancing shoes?” She stood up and
did a quick staccato rhythm on the hardwood floor.
    He arched one eyebrow in that sophisticated
way he had. Molly felt a surge of anger. This arrogant man, this
hell-bent-for-leather
bossy
banker, was ripe for a lesson.
And she was going to give it to him, even if he was Bea’s brother.
She’d worry about the consequences tomorrow.
    Using her best model’s gliding walk, she
swayed across the room toward him, very much aware of what the
moonlight did to her skin and hair and of the enticing way she made
her skirt swirl around her legs. She hoped his throat was as dry as
ashes from last year’s fire.
    She didn’t stop until she was so close she
could see the glowing center of his blacker-than-midnight eyes.
    “Or is it this, Samuel?” She looped her arms
quickly around his neck and tangled her hands in his hair. Making
her voice a seductive purr, she leaned closer. “Am I too much woman
for you to handle?”
    “You think that, do you?” His voice was low
and dangerous, and it sent shivers up her spine.
    “Yes.” Her smile was inviting and wicked.
“You act like a man on the run.”
    He reacted—not in quick anger, but with slow,
sure deliberation. His right hand cupped her cheek, resting there
for a small eternity before gliding back into her hair. She felt
her scalp tingle as he raked through her heavy tresses and let them
drift slowly through his fingers.
    He didn’t speak. He didn’t have to; his eyes
said it all. Anger and passion burned there; and something else,
something so deep, so mysterious, that Molly felt all the breath
leave her body.
    With his free hand he pulled her hard against
his hips. In a quick burst of hindsight she wondered if she had
pushed him too far. He tightened his hold and slowly lowered his
head.
    She felt his warm breath against her cheek,
smelled the clean masculine scent of him, heard his deep intake of
air. And then his lips