"Professors have a lot of power," he said.

I almost smiled. "Even medieval history professors?"

"Especially medieval history professors," he a.s.sured me.

"Knights on horseback and all that?"

A responding smile tugged at his mouth. "And damsels in distress."

Ours wasn't a romance of c.o.c.ktails and silk sheets. Ours was a romance of library call numbers, coffee cake, rainy weekends, history textbooks, and boring foreign films. We might not have happened any other way.

Some things, I think, were clearly meant to be.

A shiver of awareness ripples over my skin.

I glance at the entrance to the bar. My breath catches in my throat. Dean is walking toward me, his stride long and a.s.sured, his muscular body sheathed in a navy tailored suit that fits him to perfection.

He's not just in full professor mode; he's in full Dean West mode with his perfectly knotted tie and air of complete authority. Other patrons glance at him as he crosses the room. The overhead lights burnish his hair and cast shadows on the masculine planes of his face.

My heart gives a wild, spinning leap. I turn on the barstool to watch him-my breathtakingly beautiful husband who commands attention like a king holding court, but whose eyes remain unwaveringly fixed on me.

Oh, Dean. I've missed you.

He stops in front of me and extends his hand. "Dean West."

I smile. "Well, I know that."

He raises an eyebrow, his hand still extended.

Oh!

"I'm Olivia... Winter." I slip my hand into his. "Pleasure to meet you."

"Olivia Winter." His deep voice envelops my name like dark chocolate spilling over a ripe cherry. "Pretty."

"Thanks." I'm getting a little breathless.

Dean's fingers close around mine in a warm, secure handshake that sends a tingle clear up my arm. The scent of his shaving soap tickles my nose. I slip my hand slowly from his and gesture to the barstool beside me.

"Would you like to sit down?" I ask.

"Only if I can buy you a drink."

"Okay." I glance to the other end of the bar, where the bartender is still making my drink. "I just ordered."

"And so will I." He sits beside me, his sleeve brushing against mine.

My heart thumps with a slow, heavy beat. A hint of nervous excitement winds through me-as if he really is a strikingly handsome stranger whom I know nothing about except that I'm captivated by his presence.

"May I take your coat?" he asks, slanting his gaze over my body.

"Maybe later." I give him a sultry, sidelong glance. "Mr. West."

"You can call me sir."

Yes, I most certainly can.

"Maybe later," I murmur. "Sir."

The bartender returns, faltering slightly when he sees Dean sitting beside me.

"Here you go, miss." He sets a pretty, pink drink garnished with a cherry in front of me. "Grapefruit juice, sparkling wine, a touch of syrup."

"Put it on my tab," Dean says.

"Yes, sir."

"And I'll have a scotch on the rocks."

"Yes, sir." The bartender hurries to get the drink.

"So." I shift, letting the raincoat display a bit more of my stocking-clad leg. "What do you do, sir?"

"I'm a venture capitalist and businessman," he replies. "I own an international conglomerate of companies branded under the name the Beauty Group."

"I think I've heard of that."

"We have about five hundred companies," he continues, nodding his thanks as the bartender sets the scotch in front of him. "Travel, multimedia, entertainment, finance, hotels."

"Impressive," I remark. "You must be quite wealthy."

He shrugs, like he can't be bothered to consider his billions-of-dollars net worth.

"And you?" he asks. "What do you do, Miss Winter?"

"I'm an actress."

"Really?" He turns to face me, resting an elbow on the bar. "Stage or screen?"

"Stage, of course." I toss my hair back over my shoulder. "Movies are so pedestrian. Stage acting is so much more intimate and challenging. There's no room for error when you're on stage in front of a live audience."

"Hmm. A risk-taker, are you?"

"Under the right circ.u.mstances, I can be."

"Interesting." Dean puts his warm hand beneath my chin, turning my face toward his. "And what are the right circ.u.mstances?"

"Maybe..." I glance up at him from beneath my eyelashes. "You, Mr. West."

"Ah." He brushes his thumb across my lips, his eyes gleaming with something dark and dangerous. "Right or wrong, make no mistake, Miss Winter. I'm not a circ.u.mstance."

"What are you, then?"

"I'm your G.o.dd.a.m.ned destiny."

He lowers his mouth to mine. All the breath escapes my lungs. But instead of the hot, hard kiss I'd been expecting-antic.i.p.ating-his lips are gentle, caressing, a tease rather than an onslaught.

And yet the effect on me is devastating-my blood goes into full boil, heat pooling in my lower body. By the time Dean lifts his head and eases away from me, I'm dizzy with longing.

"Another drink?" The bartender's voice slices through my haze as he plunks a bowl of salted nuts in front of us.

"Not for me." Dean glances at me, his expression simmering with heat. "Miss Winter?"'

"No." I pull in a breath. "No, thank you."

The bartender nods and walks to the other end of the bar to a.s.sist another customer. Dean puts his hand on my thigh beneath the counter and finds the opening of my coat. His fingers brush against my leg, his touch sending heat shooting across my skin.

"So why the raincoat?" he asks, gliding his fingers discreetly up and down my leg. "Is that part of the risk-taking?"

"I... I just came from the theater," I reply, making an effort not to squirm on the barstool. "I'm still in costume."

"What kind of costume?"

"One I can't show a stranger."

"Too s.e.xy?" He moves his hand up my thigh far enough to reach the edge of my stocking.

My breath shortens. Dean slips his fingers into my stocking. His eyes darken with growing heat.

"Too... s.l.u.tty," I murmur.

"Tell me," he orders, easing off the barstool to stand beside me, blocking me from view of the rest of the room.

"It's a black lace baby doll with purple ruffles," I whisper, tensing a little when his hand glides toward my inner thigh. "It's... well, it's a little tight around my b.r.e.a.s.t.s, but I kind of like that because it feels really good on my nipples. And I'm wearing a flimsy little G-string, and thigh-high stockings."

"Hmm." A faint growl rumbles in his chest. "What role were you playing?"

"The wife of a medieval history professor who acts out all her husband's dirty fantasies. It's called The Secret Life of Professor West. You should come see it sometime."

"Maybe I will." Amus.e.m.e.nt sparks beneath the heat in Dean's eyes as he slips his hand between my thighs, urging them slightly apart.

A gasp catches in my throat. I curl my hand around his wrist, glancing nervously past his shoulder to see if anyone notices exactly what we're doing over here.

"You shouldn't do that, sir," I say.

"I'll stop if you unb.u.t.ton your coat and show me your b.r.e.a.s.t.s."

Oh my G.o.d. Desire bolts through me, centering in my core. I swallow, tightening my grip on his wrist.

"I don't think I can do that."

"Not all the way. Just a little."

He nudges his groin against my thigh. He's already half-hard. I almost moan aloud, suppressing the urge to slide my hand down the front of his gorgeous suit and cup his growing erection in my hand.

I glance around again to make sure no one else is paying attention to us, then I quickly unfasten a few b.u.t.tons of the coat to reveal the V of my cleavage. Shielding me with his body, Dean gazes at my b.r.e.a.s.t.s with hot appreciation before pressing his mouth close to my ear.

"Are your nipples hard?" he asks, his voice echoing deep inside my blood.

"Yes," I breathe, shifting and trying not to press my legs together.

"And are you wet?" He slides his hand over my thigh.

"G.o.d, De... sir."

"Are you?"

"Yes. Oh." I writhe a little on the barstool, my c.l.i.t pulsing with every beat of my heart. "Wet and... hungry, sir."

Dean smiles. I half expect him to ease the raincoat open farther and start fingering me, but instead he lowers his mouth close to my ear again.

"You're a bad girl, Olivia Winter," he whispers, his breath stirring the tendrils of my hair. "And you're the hottest, s.e.xiest woman I've ever seen in my life. I'd f.u.c.k you right here on the bar if it wouldn't get us arrested."

A shudder rocks through me. I flick my tongue out to lick my dry lips. My nipples are so hard they're starting to chafe against the mesh fabric of my bodice.

"Well," I murmur, "is there somewhere else we could go?"

"I'm in the luxury suite." Dean puts his big, warm hand on the nape of my neck. "But I'll only take you there if you agree to do whatever I say. And I should warn you I'm very demanding."

Demanding.

A bubble of excited antic.i.p.ation rises in me.

"I'll do whatever you say, sir."

"Good." He moves closer, his eyes brewing with l.u.s.t. "Now kiss me."

Before I can take a breath, his mouth comes down on mine again-this time with possessive force. A thousand fireworks explode inside me, my whole being filling with warmth and love. I lift my hands to the sides of his face as he urges my lips apart and delves his tongue into my mouth. Ah, bliss...

He tastes like scotch and s.e.x. The noise of the bar recedes, the lights fading as the world compresses to the movement of our lips together-a warm, lovely kiss edged with the promise of hot pa.s.sion.

When Dean lifts his head, we're both breathing heavily, and a faint dizziness washes over me. He brushes his thumb across my lips and puts his hand under my elbow.

I slide off the barstool, shuddering as the pulse between my legs intensifies. Dean straightens the folds of my raincoat and tightens the belt.

I slip my hand into his as we cross the room, and I'm distinctly aware of the glances tossed in our direction. I suppress a giggle at the thought of what these people would think if they knew our true story.

But this is our true story. Everything we do is part of our story.