Those about them were of all walks, all types, including others of their ilk, ladies and gentlemen enjoying an evening in the gardens, others even more like them with the lady cloaked and in some cases veiled. A frisson of daring tickled her spine; for the first time in her life, she was flirting with the illicit.

Dexter's gaze returned to her face. She met it boldly, her lips curved, awareness naked in her eyes. They continued to twirl, neither willing to look away, to risk missing the next moment. Breathing became a secondary concern; absorption in the moment was all.

Magic shimmered in the shifting light, touching them fleetingly, teasing their senses. It was as mesmerizing an experience as she'd hoped for, twirling through the shadows with him. They were surrounded, but they might as well have been alone, so intent on each other were they.

The music ended and they slowed; she broke the contact, mentally reaffirmed her plan. She'd lured him this far; now she had to tempt him to take the next step.

Martin noted the faint crease between her brows. "Would you care for some punch?" What was she plotting?

"Please." She flashed him a brilliant smile, banishing the frown. "I haven't been here for years."

"I doubt the punch has changed." He took two cups from a passing waiter, handed her one, watched her sip. Watched red liquid stain her lips, watched her tongue slide across the lower.

He raised his cup and drained it in one gulp.

"Dexter!"

Martin turned and saw Leopold Korsinsky pushing through the crowd. Mentally cursing, he tossed his empty cup to a passing attendant and reached for Amanda's hand. "Careful," was all he had time to growl before Leopold reached them, a cloaked lady on his arm.

Barely nodding to Martin, Leopold bowed elaborately before Amanda. "Madame-have we met?"

Using the cup to shield her lower face, Amanda looked out from the shadow of her hood, noting the sharpness of the Corsican's gaze as he scanned all he could see. She lowered her voice to a deeper key. "I believe we have met, sir, although you might not recall."

Dexter squeezed her fingers. Amanda grinned behind the cup.

Korsinsky's eyes narrowed. "My memory is often at fault, yet were I so remiss as to forget such an attractive party, I would be a lost cause indeed."

The other lady was eyeing Dexter as if he were a meal.

Keeping her voice low, Amanda laughed. "How do you know I'm attractive, covered as I am?"

Leopold shot a glance at Dexter and she had her answer.

"I would not suppose it otherwise, ma belle," Leopold returned. "But perhaps I can persuade you-"

"Leopold."

Just one word, loaded with warning; Leopold looked at Dexter, brows rising. "But mon ami, there is plenty of distraction for you here. Agnes, she is attending. She will be delighted to know you are present."

"I daresay. However, Madame is keen to see the gardens. If you and your lady will excuse us?" With a bow for the lady, a brusque nod for Leopold, Martin gripped Amanda's hand and stepped back. He barely gave her time to nod in farewell before he led her away.

Into the gardens, down the long, shadowed walks; Amanda saw no reason to remonstrate. "Who was the lady?"

"Not one of your circle." He took her empty glass and handed it to an attendant. Then he stopped, contemplated the poorly lit walk before them, then turned and led the way back to a cross path. "The fireworks will start soon."

They headed toward the grassy area where the fireworks would be set, meeting more and more people similarly inclined. When they stepped onto the lawn, there was a gaggle of couples milling and shifting. Dexter scanned the field. He grasped her elbow. "Up there."

"There" was a small hill affording a good view of the display. The slope was crowded, but he found them a place near the top.

"Stand in front of me." He wasn't the sort of man people crowded; he positioned her before him, protected by his body from the crowd behind and to some extent from the sides as well.

Almost immediately, the first rocket streaked upward and exploded. Accompanied by rapt "ooohs" and "aaahs," the exhibition progressed, a man-made tapestry of white fire hung against the ink-black sky.

The crowd was transfixed by a depiction of a horse, when

Amanda sensed movement behind her, then heard, "Martin? I thought it was you."

Luc Ashford!

She felt the loss of Dexter's protective presence, the loss of his heat down her back, felt suddenly vulnerable, exposed. He'd stepped back to avoid any suggestion of a connection between them. Luc was sharp-eyed and sharp-witted. Neither she nor Dexter wanted to direct Luc's gaze her way.

"Luc. Are you here for the ambiance, or are you with a party?"

After an instant's hesitation, Luc responded, "I'm with friends. They're down there, but I thought I glimpsed you through the crowd."

"Ah."

"And what of you? According to the gossips, you avoid social gatherings like the plague."

"One should never listen to gossips. I found little else of interest tonight, so thought to take the air here." After a pause, Dexter added, "I'd forgotten what it was like."

Another pause; Luc's voice was softer when he said, "Do you remember the first time we came? A girl each, a cheap booth and we thought we were kings."

"That"-Dexter spoke quietly but his tone was hard-"was a long time ago."

Luc shifted. "Indeed." After an instant's awkward silence, he said, "I'll leave you to enjoy the night, then."

Amanda could imagine their stiff nods; they were alike in more ways than the purely physical.

Minutes ticked past; she didn't move-had stopped seeing the fireworks long before. Then Martin stepped nearer; through her cloak, his fingers closed about her elbow. "Come with me."

The words were a whisper drifting past her ear. Without hesitation, she turned and let him lead her down the hill, into the empty walks.

Behind them, white fire lit the sky. A breeze stirred the leaves, setting the shadows shifting, sighing through the boughs like some watchful ghost. They turned from the main cross walk into an even darker avenue. Martin slowed, Amanda looked about and recognized where they were.

The Dark Walk.

The one Walk no young lady was ever supposed to let herself be lured into. She'd never heard of any verified drama associated with breaking that rule, but she'd never known any young lady who'd travelled the Dark Walk.

Especially with a man like Martin Fulbridge at her side.

She shot him a glance; he was waiting to capture it. Shadowed, unreadable, his eyes held hers. "I assumed a promenade down the Dark Walk would feature in your scheme for excitement."

"Indeed." In her scheme for excitement, and more; she knew opportunity when she saw it, when fate offered it to her on a plate. Tucking her hand in Martin's arm, she moved nearer. "Can we walk the whole way?"

He hesitated, then replied, "That was my intention."

It was a narrow, winding walk. The bushes that bordered it were dense, crowding in, rendering it secretive and gothic. Dotted along its length, tucked around bends, were benches and structures designed for dalliance. With the crowd distracted by the fireworks, the Dark Walk was deserted.

Save for them.

Amanda considered each bench, each gazebo as it appeared; none was quite right for her purpose. Then she saw what she needed-a small Grecian temple set back a little way from the walk and hemmed in by thick shrubs.

"Look!" She towed Dexter toward it. "Can we go in?"

She felt his sharp glance, but he took her hand and led her up the steps.

Inside was a tiny circular room; in the dark, with the bushes so close, it seemed enclosed. In the center stood a pedestal supporting the bust of some god; she couldn't tell which. There was nothing else-just empty darkness.

In which she stood with her own particular god.

He was looking at the bust. She'd slipped her fingers from his when they'd entered; now she joined him, slippers silent on the marble floor.

Martin's senses alerted him to her nearness-too late. He'd been distracted by the bust-Apollo, the gods' messenger. He'd been wondering what message there was in this for him. Now he knew.

He was too late to stop her from pressing close, from laying her hand on his chest. From leaning into him, reaching up and drawing his face to hers.

Too late to stop his body from reacting, to stop himself from bending his head, meeting her lips, taking what she offered. He tried-for one instant fought against her spell. But she'd captured him; despite all his logical arguments, there was too much of him that simply wanted her.

And it was only a kiss. That was what he told himself as he sank into her mouth, let his arms slide around her and gathered her to him.

One kiss. What harm could one kiss do? It wasn't as if he wasn't in control, of himself as well as her.

The kiss lengthened, deepened. She wound her arms about his neck and stretched upward against him.

He let her. Gloried in the feel of her lithe body pressed to his, the feminine curves, the tempting contrast of softness and resilience that beckoned, promised and teased.

She wanted more; he knew it. All sense of time, of place, of safety, fled from his reckoning. He knew nothing beyond her innocent hunger, and the powerful need to be the one to slake it.

Innocent though she was, Amanda recognized that need. She tasted it in his kiss, felt it in the arms that caged her, cradled her. Coveted it, wanted it-wanted him.