Page 8 of Theirs to Tempt: The Marriage Claim

“Less than three minutes now.” His voice is easy, making me wonder if I imagined his earlier tone.

Since people are still watching us, I sigh. As he said, it’s less than three minutes. A waltz means there will be distance between us. And he’s right about us being in public.

I slide my hand into his before my mind can form the refusal.

He closes his fingers around mine with a firmness that sends an unwelcome spark racing up my arm.

On the dance floor, he settles his free hand at the small of my back, and the heat of his palm seems to burn through the thin fabric of my dress.

Because the dance demands it, and for no other reason, I rest my hand on his shoulder.

God, I hate the way that I notice the hard, unyielding muscle beneath the fine fabric of his tuxedo.

He guides me into the first turn with effortless control.

His cuff shifts as he turns me, and something flashes at his wrist. It appears to be an owl, its tiny green eyes catching the chandelier light.

Then his body moves against mine in a way that feels far too intimate for strangers, for enemies.

Who are you?

And why the hell are you back in my life?

My heart hammers against my ribs, each beat loud in my ears, the memory of that long-ago night crashing over me in vivid, merciless detail—the floating candles on the pool, Adrian on one knee, the velvet ring box glinting in the moonlight, and then the slow, deliberate clapping that tore everything apart.

His words still echo somewhere deep inside me, cold and possessive, the promise that I would thank them, that I would be theirs. I despise them for it, for the way they stepped into my life and destroyed the one safe future I had allowed myself to imagine.

“We meet again, Ms. Langford.”

I keep my chin lifted, eyes locked somewhere past his ear, refusing to give him the satisfaction of meeting his gaze directly.

“You’re like a bad penny.” Yet I feel every point of contact between us—the steady press of his palm at my back, the way his fingers shift minutely against mine as he turns us again, the faint brush of his breath across my temple.

He laughs softly. “You can’t even begin to imagine.”

Across the room I catch sight of my father, and I frown.

His face is pale beneath the chandelier light.

He starts forward, but the other man is there, a solid wall of presence at his side, murmuring something that makes my father’s shoulders slump.

The sight sends fresh anger surging through me. “I don’t know what the hell game you and your thug of a friend are playing, Mr.—”

“Hawthorne. Lucian Hawthorne. At your service.”

I scoff and attempt to pull away.

Instantly he tightens his grip. “Don’t make a scene, Ms. Langford.”

Until now, his tone has been gentle with me. And now? There’s a threat that arrows fear down my spine.

“You won’t like the outcome.”

I tighten my jaw and glance back at my father. I’ve never seen him look so helpless.

Scowling, I misstep, but Lucian is there, stabilizing me in a flawless, unhurried way, guiding me as though we belong together, as if I don’t despise him.

The final notes of the waltz linger in the air as he draws me to a stop near the edge of the dance floor, his hand still at my back, holding me in place with that same quiet authority that sent Adrian fleeing from my life.