Even her companion appeared somewhat sinister as she glanced at him across their table. Geoff was unusually quiet as he returned her gaze, as if he were evaluating something about her. Too quiet, she decided. The black domino mask he wore drew attention to his eyes and shadowed his face, playing dramatic tricks with his features. It carved hollows beneath his cheekbones, and the sensual line of his lower lip seemed to whisper of a hidden capacity for both tenderness and cruelty. He could have been one of Satan's disciples, if not the Prince of Darkness himself.

Randy touched one of the graceful white feathers of her own mask and looked around the room, suddenly very curious about what sort of club it was. "What does cheiro de amor mean?" she asked Geoff.

He drew a long-stemmed red rose out of the bud vase on their table and handed it to her, a suggestion of a smile on his lips. "The smell of love," he said.

"The rose, you mean?" She brought the petals to her nose and breathed in a musky, clinging fragrance that couldn't have been the rose's natural scent.

"No, I mean the club. It's called the smell of love."

"Smell?" Randy repeated the word, certain she couldn't possibly have heard him right. She glanced furtively at the rose, then returned it to the vase, posthaste.

Before she could question Geoff any further, their French maid arrived with a bucket of iced champagne and two batidas, Brazilian drinks made of guava nectar, green lemon juice, and cachaca, a fiery sugarcane liqueur. One sip and Randy decided the drink's popularity was based on potency rather than taste. It had the kick of a twenty-mule team.

Geoff briefly conversed with the waitress in Portuguese, apparently asking her to run a tab. Randy began to fish through her purse, planning to show the woman Hugh's picture, but Geoff signaled her to hold off with a quick shake of his head.

The bra.s.sy sounds of a bossa nova drew Randy's attention to the opposite end of the room where a small live orchestra played on a balcony that was suspended from the wall above the dance floor. The dancers below wriggled and writhed with abandon, some of the women wearing little more than tanga. The men wore a variety of outfits, mostly fiendish in nature. Devils abounded in red tights, tails, and horns.

Randy didn't know whether to be amused or appalled. It looked like something out of Dante's Inferno. One gyrating woman appeared to be wearing nothing more than a sheer black body stocking with budding roses hiding the nipples of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s and a necklace of roses adorning her bottom like a G-string. The only other rose on her was dead center over her navel.

Her partner was also dressed in form-fitting black, but his mask was an elaborate affair that included a black mane of hair and wolf's ears. The two of them didn't dance so much as circle, twirling and sniffing like two wild creatures engaging in a mating ritual.

"Are you sure this was the club Hugh came to?" Randy asked Geoff, trying to imagine her fiance in such a place.

"According to the cabbie, he might as well have lived here."

Randy shook her head, unable to take it in. Not only couldn't she imagine Hugh in a flesh palace like Cheiro de Amor, she'd often wondered if he might be under-s.e.xed. When she'd told him she wanted to wait until they were married, he hadn't pressed her as most men would have. He'd always been patient and understanding.

Could Hugh have had a whole other life she knew nothing about? Randy helped herself to another drink of her batida, a deep pull this time. None of this made sense, but then nothing in her life had since Geoff Dias showed up. Maybe he'd kidnapped Hugh, she thought fancifully, taking the scenario to its absurd extremes. It was odd how Geoff had turned up just after Hugh disappeared. But then the ad she'd placed explained that ... didn't it?

She felt something brush her hand and turned back to Geoff. His fingertips just touched hers, and she was struck with how ruggedly beautiful his hands were, how much latent male power they conveyed. The backs were large and strong, roped with tendons, burned by the sun. But his fingers revealed a different man. They were extraordinarily long and sensual, imbued with the sensitivity and fine-motor control of an artist. Stranger yet, his nails looked as if they weren't entirely unfamiliar with a manicurist's file. Artist, biker, or mercenary? she wondered. His hands were full of contradictions, like him.

"As long as we have the champagne ... " he said, taking the bottle from the bucket. He filled two flutes and handed Randy one. "To Carnaval," he said, touching his gla.s.s to hers. "A feast for the senses."

"To Carnaval," Randy echoed. She'd always loved champagne. As she sipped it she relished the crisp dry taste and the geyser of bubbles that tickled her lips. The wine began to have a mellowing effect almost immediately, and she settled back into her chair, relaxing a bit. "Shouldn't we be making inquiries about Hugh?" she asked, feeling vaguely guilty about enjoying herself.

"We will," Geoff a.s.sured her. "Once I've had a chance to get the lay of this place, I'll ask some questions. In the meantime, enjoy the show." He nodded toward the dance floor.

Randy turned to look. The woman in the body stocking seemed to be conducting a one-woman floor show. She'd abandoned the wolf, and she was flirting madly with every demon, devil, and gargoyle in sight. Randy felt a moment of alarm when the woman began dancing her way toward their table. She apparently had Geoff in mind for her next conquest, and Randy wanted to trip her as she wriggled past.

Much to Randy's relief, Geoff shook his head when the woman tried to induce him to dance with her. Undaunted, she writhed sinuously around his chair, playing with his mask and his hair, slinking up behind him to nuzzle his neck. With amazing suppleness, she arched her spine over the back of his chair and stroked his ear with her tongue like a cat lapping cream. A moment later she'd come around the other side of the chair and was curling into his lap, rubbing her nearly naked body all over him.

Randy's shock turned to indignation as the woman entwined her arms around his neck, clearly intending to kiss him. The rest of it was theatrics, but a kiss, that was just too d.a.m.n intimate. Randy's jaw began to ache, and she realized with surprise that she was clenching it. Why was Geoff allowing the woman to maul him? Why didn't he put a stop to it?

Randy rose in a huff, looking for the ladies' room, and collided with catwoman's partner. "Excuse me," Randy said, a.s.suming the wolfman was on his way to collect his promiscuous partner-and perhaps punch Geoff in the eye. Randy wouldn't have minded either at that moment.

But the wolfman had other things in mind.

He slipped his hand around Randy's waist and slowly drew her against him. His muscular body was encased in dancerlike black tights, and his black mesh tank top revealed a triangle of chest hair that streaked all the way to his belly b.u.t.ton. His eyes glowed luminously through the holes of his mask.

"You like to dance?" he asked, swaying to the beat of the pulsing music. His voice was as mellifluous as a samba and rife with Latin inflections.

Randy had every intention of turning him down. But as she glanced over her shoulder and saw Geoff still entangled with the catwoman, she decided she would like nothing better than to dance. She accepted with a flirty bat of her eyelashes, and the wolfman wasted no time splaying his hand over her derriere and drawing her into the orbit of his rotating pelvis.

"You do the forbidden dance?" he asked, urging her to move with him.

"If it's forbidden," she told him boldly, "I do it."

His hand tightened possessively on her bottom. Staring into her eyes, he began to swivel even more seductively, cranking her around with him. If they'd been churning b.u.t.ter, Randy decided, they would have had a bucket by now. "Couldn't we spin or something?" she asked.

"oba!" he said, an ecstatic groan in his voice.

Randy a.s.sumed that must be Portuguese for "spin," because he began to twirl her around madly. She managed to catch a glance of Geoff as she turned, and saw with great satisfaction that she had his attention at last. He didn't look happy, she noted. Neither did the catwoman, who'd been ejected from his lap.

"oba, oba!" the wolfman cried again.

oba or not. Randy was ready to land. The spinning was making her dizzy and her heart was beginning to pound. But how to get that across to her highly enthusiastic partner? She tried to free her hand, but he seemed to be misreading her signals. He whipped her into his arms and bent her over backward, gripping her by the waist with both hands and shaking her out like a throw rug. Even upside down, Randy could see the jealous fire building in Geoff's eyes.

"Don't!" Randy squealed as the wolfman ran his hands up her rib cage, tickling a scream out of her. She couldn't help herself. There were certain vulnerable spots on her body that sent her into nearly hysterical fits. Unfortunately, her squeals seemed to incite the wolfman.

"oba!" he groaned, his hands all over her.

"Stop!" she shrieked, trying to get up.

Geoff rose from his chair, full of menace. Randy saw him coming. She also saw the darkening fury of his intention, but there wasn't time to warn the wolfman. There wasn't time for anything! She was jerked up to a vertical position as her partner was ripped bodily from her arms.

"May I cut in?" Geoff asked, lethally polite. He'd picked the wolfman up by his armpits and was holding him suspended in the air.

"No!" Randy exclaimed. But to her dismay, the wolfman was frantically nodding yes. "Put him down, Geoff," she ordered, a little discouraged at the wolfman's lack of gallantry. Weren't Latin men supposed to be famous for their displays of machismo? At the very least she would like to have seen some foot-stamping or chin-thrusting. Instead, the moment the wolfman's feet touched the ground, he shot off as if hounds were at his heels.

"I'm not sure I want to dance with you," Randy informed Geoff, favoring him with her version of an upthrust chin. She c.o.c.ked her head and shot him a look that said "Buzz off, buster."

It worked better than she'd expected. His eyes ignited, flaring inside the black mask with a warning that made Randy catch her breath and step back. If there was a man alive capable of breathing fire, Geoff Dias was that man, she realized.

"Maybe I can help you make up your mind," he said, closing the distance she'd put between them. He searched her face as if he meant to devour her, and then he placed his hand exactly where her former partner's had been, on the rounded curve of her derriere. "You seemed to like this when he did it."

"I did like it," she lied.

His fingers sank into her flesh, and his thumb closed over her hipbone. "Wrong answer, sweetness," he said roughly. "You're not allowed to like it with anyone else. Not with him, not with Hugh, not with anybody but me."

He stared into her eyes, his fingers tensing, relaxing. And then he began to work his hand slowly, ma.s.saging her derriere in ways that made Randy's muscles grip and ache. The shock of it heated her blood to a low flame and sent a languorous weakness spilling through her veins. The shock of it thrilled her. She tried to protest, but he pressed his other hand to her mouth, silencing her with long, long fingers.

Randy went still immediately, though she couldn't have explained why she was allowing him to handle her in such an intimate way. They were shadowed by darkness, and she doubted if the other patrons could see them, but still, they were in a public place. Yet something about the silent authority of his fingers on her mouth kept her motionless. Something about their pressure against the pliancy of her lips, their warmth and firmness.

She should have been fighting, but she could feel her lips tingling, responding in a way that made it seem as if she were kissing his fingertips, a willing victim. He pressed into her softness, seducing her with slow, hypnotic strokes, the way a cobra enthralls its prey.

When he seemed persuaded that she wouldn't put up a fight, he began to move his hand down her throat, slowly, creating a mesmerizing friction as he curved his palm to the lines of her neck, molded it to her collarbone and then drew it even lower, measuring the quick rise and fall of her breathing. Each touch was spellbinding in the way it made her antic.i.p.ate the next one.

Her eyelids drooped, wanting to close as she memorized the width of his palm and the length of his fingers. He had rugged, beautiful hands. Artistic hands, gifted with precision and sensitivity. She could already imagine them on her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, thrilling her, claiming her in the same possessive way he was palming her bottom.

"Look at me, Randy."

She resisted until his fingers spoke to her, overriding her will in a way that his sensual voice couldn't. She looked up at him, her heart crowding her throat. He was the kind of man who could make a woman do anything, she realized. He could master a woman's flesh with his hands and still the last quiver of defiance in her soul. She should have been trying to find a way to release herself from his power. Instead, she was glorying in the weakness she felt.

When he seemed satisfied that he had her undivided attention, he gave her the urgent thrill she'd been imagining. He slipped his hand inside the bodice of her dress and cupped her naked breast. The audacity of it sent a shock of pleasure flowing all the way to the soles of her feet.

"n.o.body, baby," he whispered, giving her a possessive little shake with his hands. "n.o.body but me."

Randy felt grounded to the floor by the painful currents of excitement running through her. Samba music throbbed around her, hot and heavy, and the musky perfume of roses was nearly suffocating as she breathed it in. She swayed toward Geoff, drunk with the sensations of the moment. He bent to kiss her and as their lips touched, a kind of chaos broke out around them. The room went wine red with light, and the band's bra.s.s section launched into a fanfare of trumpets.

Bewildered, Randy noticed the curtain rising on the stage next to their table. Apparently the show was starting. Or were they the show? She glanced around the room and saw all eyes trained in their direction. A flicker of amus.e.m.e.nt crossed Geoff's lips and Randy realized he wasn't embarra.s.sed in the slightest. Like an incorrigible kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar, he seemed to be finding the situation quite entertaining.

Randy didn't share the sentiment. Furious, she slapped his hand away, then twisted around and straightened her dress. But if she was angry with him, she was even angrier with herself. How many kinds of idiot was she for getting herself into these predicaments with him? He took advantage again and again, but she couldn't seem to get it through her head that he was the enemy. He might be the only man who could find Hugh, but he was also the one man who could ruin her life!

She turned to the entrance, intending to get some air, and was alarmed to see a guard posted by the door.

"You might as well sit down," Geoff said, his hand on her waist. "They don't let people in or out during the floor show."

"Why?" she demanded. "Is it so bad, people try to escape?"

He merely smiled. "You'll see."

Randy sat down, still fuming. Her jaw ached like fire and she was already regretting her eagerness to check out the club. Some investigation this was turning out to be. They hadn't even asked about Hugh yet.

The band was going full tilt with the torchiest music imaginable when Randy finally got around to glancing at the stage. The set consisted of nothing more than a streetlamp with a smoldering Latin male leaning against it. A female temptress, writhing to the music behind him, was tugging his white T-shirt out of his jeans and brushing herself up against his backside.

For all of the woman's diligence, she didn't look as if she wanted to do his laundry, Randy decided. The straps of her sliplike dress were hanging off her shoulders, and her b.r.e.a.s.t.s strained against the sheer material. She was wanton seduction itself, yet somehow the man managed to feign indifference, even as she pulled up his shirt and exposed his muscled chest to her roaming hands.

Feigned was the key word, Randy realized when she noticed the burgeoning in the man's pants. That wasn't supposed to happen in floor shows, was it? The woman began to unbuckle his belt, brazen in her eagerness to touch him. As she unzipped his fly, the man glanced down, watching her hands work their seductive magic.

Randy looked away, as startled by the act as the memory it evoked. It forced her to think about what she'd done to Geoff that night years ago. She shifted in the chair and rearranged herself, crossing her legs and tugging down her skirt. But nothing she did could stop the flood of images or the soft aching that stirred inside her. Some experiences were indelible, so sharply engraved on the nervous system, they could never be erased. That night was everywhere, past flowing into the present like an erupting volcano.

The music hit a resounding crescendo. As Randy looked up, bongo drums throbbed and the man on the stage came alive. He grasped the woman's hand and swung her around in front of him, bringing her to her knees in an erotic, dancelike move.

Seemingly crazed with desire, the woman strained toward him, letting out an anguished moan as he pulled her to her feet and pressed her to the back wall of the shallow stage. As she writhed against his imprisoning hands, her dress inched down her shoulders, freeing one of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s to the man's gaze, and to his mouth as he bent to taste her.

It all happened so quickly. Randy couldn't look away. Her breathing went high and shallow, coming from some tight corner of her throat. These people weren't playacting, she realized as the man tangled his hands in the woman's skirt and drew the silk up her thighs.

Unable to free herself, Randy felt a sickening flash of shock and excitement as she watched the erotic spectacle. The dancers' naked desire left her dizzy and fighting to breathe. She glanced at Geoff and saw a glint of green through his black mask. He'd been watching her rather than the show, she realized. But for how long? He looked sinister now, like some kind of demon G.o.d presiding over the festivities. His gaze made her feel like a sacrificial virgin being primed for her own ravishment.

A screech of laughter struck at Randy's fraying nerves. She came out of the chair, bewildered, frightened. As she pulled off her mask, she noticed the furtive eyes of the crowd glancing her way. Their smiles seemed to taunt her and leer, and the blaring orchestra music throbbed in her head. Had she gone crazy or was everyone in the room watching her with some kind of demonic amus.e.m.e.nt?

Panic galvanized her. She started for the entrance, her only thought to get out of the room. The guard was so absorbed in the show, he made no attempt to stop her as she rushed past him. She burst through the door to the club's foyer and then out the next door to an even more chaotic scene-tribal drums, samba bands, and careening floats.

Clowns teetered by on towering stilts, nearly naked women quivered blissfully to the music, and conga lines of revelers danced in the streets, whirling dervishes of primal energy and sensuality. It was Carnaval, Randy realized. There was no escaping the madness!

Someone jostled her from behind, and she stumbled forward toward the street. Before she could catch her balance, a grinning Dracula caught hold of her hand and dragged her with him into a conga line. She was swept along with the crowd, sucked deeper and deeper into the frenzied crush.

Costumed bodies slammed into her, anonymous hands groped her, and the musk of overheated human flesh a.s.sailed her senses. A heel snapped off her shoe and one of her shoulder straps tore free of its moorings. She clutched the bodice of her dress as she fought to stay on her feet. It was raw fear that kept her going. The only rule was survival-move with the teeming ma.s.ses or be trampled by them.

"Randy!"

She heard Geoff's voice through the din, but she couldn't see him. As the parade swung around a corner, the pack that surrounded her became even more compressed. For several seconds, she was lifted off the ground as the press of bodies threatened to crush the wind out of her. "Geoff!" she screamed in terror.

Another shift in the parade's direction dropped her to the ground like a rock. Her feet collided with the pavement and she pitched forward, landing on one knee. Pain jolted through her as revelers swarmed around her, knocking her off balance again and again.

"Randy! Here!"

She heard Geoff calling to her and as she fought to get up, then strong hands lifted her free of the melee. A moment later he was pulling her with him into the safety of a narrow alleyway, drawing her into a recessed doorway.

She'd never been so glad to see anyone in her life. Sobbing with relief, she threw her arms around him and buried her face in his hair. He held her protectively, cradling her head in the curve of his throat. "Randy, Randy," he crooned harshly, "don't ever do anything crazy like that again. You could have gotten yourself killed."

For once Randy hadn't the slightest inclination to argue with him. It felt too good being safe in his arms. It felt like heaven after the nightmare of purgatory. And that was all she wanted for now, just the solace of being held and stroked and loved until she could stop shaking.

Loved? she thought ... loved? Was that what she wanted?

Yes, just for now.

He seemed to understand her need. The sheltering strength of his arms conveyed that he had no intention of letting her go until she was ready. If she wanted to be held until the sun ceased to shine, he'd be there.

For Randy it was a new experience. She'd never let herself receive comfort from a man before, simply taking what was offered. She'd always thought women had to barter with men, as her mother had: An act of s.e.x equaled some affection; tears were good for an apology; a hint of contrition, maybe even dinner. It was all coercion, giving to get. But this kindness felt blissfully undeserved. She'd given Geoff Dias nothing but grief so far.

It took her some time, but finally she was able to separate herself from the muscled warmth of his body long enough to glance up at him. "I think I'm going to live," she told him.

"I'm glad to hear it." He continued to smooth her hair as if that were his sole purpose in life. "Why did you run away?"

"I had to." She was surprised he didn't understand. "That floor show! And you, the Prince of Darkness himself, leering at me like I was some kind of virgin sacrifice-or a peach ripening to be plucked."

His expression was one of droll self-restraint. "You have quite an imagination, lady."

"Don't lie. You weren't thinking about plucking me?"

"I think about that a lot, but I'd rather do it privately, just the two of us. Say ... back at the hotel? It's short notice for a virgin sacrifice, but I'll see what I can do. Of course, we'll need a virgin."

"Cheeky b.a.s.t.a.r.d," she said, laughter bubbling in her reproach. Still suspicious of his s.e.xy grin, she leaned back, letting herself be supported by the circle of his arms. "You had no ulterior motives in mind taking me to the club?"

"Randy, you insisted on going." He lifted the dangling rhinestone strap of her dress, drawing the bodice up to cover the creamy fullness of one nearly exposed breast. "If I had ulterior motives, would I be doing this?"

He'd picked the wrong area of her body to be gallant about, especially considering the liberties he'd taken earlier-and in his office. "Don't play games with me, Geoff Dias," she warned, surprised at the emotion in her voice. "I'm not an easy mark, whatever evidence you may think you have to the contrary. I won't be trifled with like all those other women you've conquered-the 'babies' on your bike."

She pressed her hands to his biceps and pushed, making a halfhearted attempt to extricate herself. He countered by slipping his fingers into her hair, by stroking the tautness below her cheekbone with his thumb. Finally, reluctantly, she met his eyes and felt her pulse rate soar.

"I'm not trifling," he insisted quietly. "If I wanted to trifle, I could have had that crazed woman back at Cheiro de Amor. And the 'baby' on my bike is singular, just one woman."

His voice dropped low, but there was something pa.s.sionate in its tone, something male and possessive. "It's you ... Randy. Baby, it's you."

Randy was more than astonished, she was fearful. He'd sounded as if he meant it. But surely that was impossible. Men like Geoff Dias didn't squander themselves on just one female, not with so much testosterone to spread around, not with so many worlds to conquer, so many women. "What are you saying?" she demanded, covering her alarm with questions. "What do you mean, it's me?"

He shook his head, as if a little confused himself. "I don't know, maybe I want to give this thing a chance.