Billion Dollar Stranger - Stephanie Brother Page 0,74

his one visible eye. "You want another glass of champagne?"

"Why not." I'm already light-headed, and it's good to be able to let my hair down after a stressful few months. My new job at Bolton General Hospital is exactly what I've been working towards since I was ten, but it's all that expectation that has made it a high-pressure change. I know I shouldn't be worrying so much about the impression I'm making in the department, but I can't help myself. My career has been my main focus for a long, long time.

"So, where do you work, Dr. Analie Taylor?" Robert asks, passing me another glass of champagne.

"Bolton General. I'm attached to the burns unit, hence my attendance tonight."

"Ah," he replies, glancing around. "It's a worthy cause." His voice is tinged with sadness; another hint of that skeleton he's hiding, maybe.

"What's your involvement in the charity?" I ask. 'Burn – Relief, Recovery, Reconstruction' is an unusual good cause to be involved in unless you have some experience of burns. Most in attendance are motivated by events that have happened in their own lives.

"I'm a major donor," Robert says, waving his hand as if to say it was no big deal.

"That's great," I say. "They need all the funding they can get." I watch Robert as I talk, trying to gauge his reaction. "It can take years of therapy to recover from the effects of burns, whether it's happened directly to you or to someone you know." Robert stares straight ahead, avoiding looking at me, then he gulps down the rest of his champagne and holds out his hand.

"We should dance," he says. "Have some fun before all the serious stuff happens."

Before I know what's happening, he's taken my almost empty glass, put it on the table, and dragged me to the center of the dance floor. The song playing is slow and mellow, and Robert draws me against him, keeping hold of one hand and settling the other against the small of my back. He's a good dancer and knows how to lead. I relax against him, my face just under his chin, where I can smell his warm cologne again. It's something deep and spicy.

"Your hair smell of apples," he says quietly against my ear.

My heart skitters in my chest with a mixture of arousal and fear. I know it sounds odd that I'm scared. Maybe scared is the wrong word because I feel unusually comfortable in the arms of this stranger. Perhaps anxious is a better word.

I like him.

And I think he likes me. But he doesn't know me. He can't see the truth.

He can't see the specter in my closet, and if he could, I can guarantee we wouldn't be dancing right now.

We sway in silence for a while, and I'm glad because I need some time to regroup. Robert is solid and warm and funny, and just a little bit vulnerable, and I'm kicking myself for feeling this connection.

I like this man.

Enough that I'd want to accept his number if he offers it.

Enough to kiss him, maybe.

I look up at his mouth and those soft lips of his. Definitely enough to kiss him. I'd do it in spite of the skeletons and risk the rejection after.

We're both wearing masks, and there's a safety in that, a safety I hadn't expected to feel. When I picked out the dress, it was after I bought the mask. Maybe that's why it's so out of my normal comfort zone. Maybe deep down, I knew I'd feel different tonight.

"What are you thinking about?" he asks softly.

My eyes flick to his, and my heart seems to still. I feel like I'm in a movie getting swept off my feet by a Hollywood hero. "That would be telling Mr. Harrington," I say with a small smile. "A woman needs to keep some mystery about herself."

"Mystery is overrated, Dr. Analie."

"You're pretty mysterious." He smiles wryly, and I raise an eyebrow.

He shrugs. "Sometimes it's better to keep things to yourself."

"That statement is the psychologist's equivalent of holding a red rag to a bull."

Robert smirks and suddenly spins us around, the lights above creating streaks of light as the velocity forces my gaze to the ceiling. The champagne's made my head foggy, but Robert holds me tight enough that I can surrender to his movements without concern of falling.

"You're a witch, Analie," he whispers. "A beautiful, bewitching siren."

"I have you under my spell." I'm partly joking and partly serious. There's something in the air between