Working to hold his gaze without blushing, I clear my throat. "Mr. Delecoeur. I'm sorry you had to hear that."

"No doubt you are, but you didn't answer my question."

I know I should be polite, apologetic even, but I see the challenge in his eyes and can't help myself. "I know because I've met many men like you. You think your looks and money entitle you to whatever you want. And society seems to agree because it caters to your every whim."

"So, all rich, good-looking men are scoundrels?"

I think on his statement for a moment. "Yep, that about sums it up."

"I see. Do you care to hear my assessment of beautiful, but insecure women?"

The bravado I'd been feeling drops away. "Not particularly."

"I do," Eleanor says.

His pointed gaze never leaves my eyes and it's all I can do not to shift or step back from its scrutiny.

"They are judgmental, bitter, and cowardly."

There's an audible snort from my aunt. Cara hides her snicker behind her champagne flute.

My jaw tightens. "I'm not a coward. Or bitter."

"Prove it."

"What?" I'm baffled by his response.

He smiles, and it's as dazzling as his eyes. "Prove it. Dance with me."

"I will not dance with you."

"Coward."

I look to my aunt for support, and then Cara, but they're too amused by the scene playing out to help.

I turn back to Max. "Look. I'm sorry if I offended you." And I am. It's not like me to be so openly rude, even to people with gargantuan character flaws.

"You can make it up to me with a dance." He steps closer. Close enough I can feel the heat of his body and inhale the scent of his cologne. My body says, yum, but my brain tells it to shut up.

"I don't want to dance."

"I bet you're a fabulous dancer." His eyes sparkle with mischief and promise. A dangerous combination.

"She is," Eleanor says.

I cut my aunt a scathing glare, before speaking to Max. "You don't have to do this."

"Do what?" He tilts his head closer to me, and a tug of war rages inside me. My body says, go dance with the sexy man. One part of my brain says, warning, step away from the sexy man. The other part of my brain says, don't step back from the sexy man or he'll know you're affected.

Swallowing the torment swirling around my head, I say, "You don't have to dance with me to try and make me see that you're a decent man."

"That's not why I want to dance with you. It would be a nice result though."

"Then why?" I can't figure out why he wants to dance, except maybe to shame me for my mean-spirited words.

He shrugs. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

I grow suspicious. "Try me."

"Dance with me first."

Curiosity has always been my Achilles heel. It serves me well as an investigative journalist, but on occasion, it gets me in trouble. Chances are, it is going to get me in trouble now, because my curiosity is piqued and my conviction not to dance waivers. 

"One dance?"

He nods. "One dance."

 

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