"It's pretty, isn't it?" she asked. "I think it was the only hit Spandau Ballet ever had."

"Spandau Ballet." He'd heard of many dance troupes, but never that one. "I cannot say that I am familiar with them."

"Before our time," Chris said. "My mother loved this song." Her eyes shuttered and her voice changed, growing crisp and impersonal again. "How did you know what I was drinking? Did you ask the waitress or the bartender?"

"Neither." She guarded herself more carefully than a Scotsman did his purse, Robin thought, while asking questions better left unanswered. He decided to tell her the truth and see what she would make of it. "I could smell the ginger ale on your breath."

"You couldn't have done that," she told him flatly. "You were sitting at least ten feet away from me."

"Alas, I'm cursed with a sensitive nose." He took in the scent of her on a slow, deep breath. "You also smell of rain, herbs, honey, and…" He bent his head close to her mouth. "Maraschino cherries. Did you steal them when the bartender wasn't looking?"

"No, he put two in the first drink he made for me." Her fine cognac eyes grew wary. "That's quite an impressive trick."

He moved his shoulders. "It's nothing."

"I washed my hair with rain-scented shampoo and conditioner today," Chris said, "and I drank a cup of herbal tea with honey."

He grinned. "So I was right."

"I did all that," she continued, "when I got up this morning." She waited a beat. "Seventeen hours ago."

Robin's smile faded as her words invoked an image of her in his bed, her pale skin and auburn hair glowing against the dark sienna of his silk sheets, her arms open and welcoming. The book could wait; having her could not. He would have to lay siege to the fortress she had built around her heart, and quickly, before her suspicions drove her from him.

"If this is a practical joke, it's a good one," Chris continued. "Did Hutchins put you up to it?"

"I don't know anyone named Hutchins." He could barely speak as primal need surged through him, lodging in his groin to distend and harden his cock while demanding he find some manner in which to turn the fantasy into reality. Feeding earlier lent him a certain measure of control he might otherwise have lost in this astonishing rush of desire for her, but suddenly Robin did not trust himself. "I am not joking with you."

"You're not." She sounded uncertain now.

Robin couldn't think, not with the urgency of his hunger pounding inside his head. He could not tolerate another moment of this. He had to have her. Tonight. Now. He kept a suite of rooms at the hotel where he frequently used willing females. The only thing that kept him from sweeping her up into his arms and carrying her off to the nearest elevator was the sound of her voice, asking him more questions.

"Do you know a fair-haired man who wears a lot of red?" She nodded toward the other side of the dance floor. "There's one over there staring at you."

Robin glanced over to see his seneschal, Will Scarlet. He made a simple gesture behind Chris's back, and Will scowled but retreated into the crowd.

"Pay no heed to him." He noticed the other couples staring and smiling at him and realized how badly his control had slipped; somehow he'd flooded the entire dance floor with his scent. No wonder Will had come to see what the matter was. Soon every occupant of the bar would fall under his spell.

Except one, it seemed.

Robin peered down at the woman in his arms to see if her pupils had dilated, but the dark color of her eyes made it impossible to tell. "How are you feeling?"

"This is nice." She sighed. "I don't want to go home."

At last, her fortress was crumbling. He didn't know if it was due to his talent or l'attrait, and he didn't care. He tugged her closer, fitting her body to his and pressing his aroused flesh against her belly. She did not pull away, and indeed the movements they made caused her abdomen to rub lightly over the ridge of his erection.

Robin gritted his teeth. "What if I ask you for more than a dance, love?"

"You can ask." She emphasized the last word oddly.

Robin knew women, delighted in them. He had spent several lifetimes enjoying their company, learning their ways, and recognizing their wiles. He knew the subtle changes arousal caused in their voices and their bodies, the tantalizing signs that showed their interest in a man.

Although Chris was perhaps the most reserved human female he had ever encountered, and possessed great skill in masking both her true thoughts and emotions, he did not doubt now that she desired him. No mortal he touched had ever resisted his charm for long. Not even this stubborn wench, who had wanted nothing to do with him but five minutes ago.

Fool. Inside Robin's skull, his father's angry voice shouted across seven centuries. You want her only because you cannot have her.

The scent of bergamot thinned as Robin's self-disgust grew, and gradually the other couples on the dance floor lost interest in them. When the song ended, he released Chris and stepped away from her, breaking all physical contact. As long as he didn't touch her, his talent could not influence her decisions. As soon as he left, the effects of l'attrait would rapidly dissipate.

And he would never know her, because once he took the manuscript from her he would have all that he truly wanted, and that was how it would be. How it would have to be.

Robin bowed to her. "I thank you for the dance."

Chris began to say something, and then hesitated as if choosing her words.

"It's all right, love. This is not your doing." Because he couldn't help himself, he added, "My home in the city is on the penthouse floor of the Armstrong building. It is that unsightly tower of black glass and steel at the end of the street. Do you know it?"

She nodded.

"Good." At least he could offer this much. "Come to me there, whenever you wish."

"Come to you? Rob—"

"Listen to me now." He felt the tips of his dents acérées emerge into his mouth, aching for a taste of her flesh. He slid his hand to cup the back of her neck and pressed his cheek to hers, using his talent to enforce his words. "I want you, love, more than I can say. But it must be what you want. When I am gone, when your head clears, then you must choose to do as you wish. Nothing more. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, but—"

Robin pressed his scarred fingers against her lips. "You know where I shall be. I do not sleep until after dawn." He put his mouth to the back of her hand, careful not to let her feel the sharp tips of his fangs. "I hope that we meet again, my lady."

Chapter Three

Chris watched Rob walk out of the club before she retreated to her table and sat down alone. She'd enjoyed the dance, and the rare opportunity to be treated as nothing more than a pretty woman, but something she had said or done had definitely given Rob the wrong impression.

Maybe he'd read her wrong when she'd mentioned how nice it was to dance, and that she didn't want to go home. Somehow those innocent remarks had driven him wild. So much so that he hadn't even bothered to conceal his erection, or the lust that he'd assumed was mutual.

I want you, love, more than I can say.

Chris had worked in a male-dominated field for years, and she knew how fragile men's egos could be. She also avoided being cruel whenever possible. She would have let him down gently; she'd had every intention of doing so as soon as the song was over. But from the moment he'd made it clear that he wanted more than a dance, Rob had hardly let her get a word in edgewise. In fact, he'd behaved as if she were the one acting out of control.

It matters not, as long as you will stay.

She'd noticed immediately the odd shift in his speech when he'd become aroused, too. Maybe he was an actor obsessed with Shakespeare or Tolkien or something. He'd certainly been so preoccupied with being noble that in the end he'd done the dirty work for her.

… it must be what you want.

Had she sent him some mixed signals? It wouldn't violate Chris's cast-iron principals to admit that Rob was one of the most attractive men she'd ever met. Or that being in his arms had brought back to life feelings that she'd thought the job had smothered long ago.

No, that wasn't true. She'd forgotten the job and her responsibilities, and for a few minutes had enjoyed simply being a woman. That could have been what set Rob off. Then he'd had that panic attack or whatever it had been and seemed as if he couldn't get away from her fast enough. She still felt a little guilty for allowing him to leave in such a state. Had he been drunk? She should have seen the signs if he had been.

It's all right, love. This is not your doing.

Chris left the club and took the elevator down to the lobby, where a doorman offered to hail a cab for her. Without thinking she shook her head and glanced down the street.

You know where I shall be.

That she did. She could see the Armstrong building from here. It was exactly as he'd described: an ugly column of dark glass and polished steel girders. All the windows were dark, except for the rows on the very top floor. Those windows glowed with diffused light from within.

I do not sleep until after dawn.

She wouldn't sleep at all tonight either. Not after this.

… you must choose to do as you wish.

Without knowing exactly why, Chris began walking down toward the end of the street.

The hollow sound of her heels on the concrete sidewalk kept time with her pulse, slow and then quickening, faltering as her common sense tried to turn her around, speeding up as the low, velvety voice in her head persuaded her to keep going.

… it must be what you want. What you want. What you want.

As skeptical and pragmatic as Chris was, she did believe in love at first sight. Her parents had taken one look at each other across a crowded room and, twenty-four hours later, had stood in front of a justice of the peace to make things legal.