He grimaced, about to rise from his very awkward position on the floor.

And then her gaze moved directly to, and upon, him- where it riveted.

He smiled up at her, feeling rather foolish.

She gaped.

"Hello," he said, aware of using his most devastating grin upon her.

"Oh, dear! Are you hurt?" she cried, rushing forward.

"Actually," he said, seizing upon the excuse, "it is my knee. A bad injury, you see." He began to rise.

To his surprise, she put the champagne down and in the blink of an eye was actually assisting him to his feet, supporting his weight with her shoulder. "Did you fall down?" she asked when he was finally standing upright, her arms still around him.

He stared into her brilliantly blue eyes, a blue that even two thirds of a bottle of superior champagne could not dim. In other circumstances, he would enjoy her concern and take advantage of it. "Yes, thank you, I did."

"Here, let me help you to sit, then," she said, pushing him toward the sofa.

"No, I am fine." He resisted, and she was strong, surprisingly so for a woman of her size and attractiveness.

"But you are hurt."

"It is an old injury, actually," he said, smiling. "The war."

"The war?" She continued to press her body against his, trying to urge him to the sofa. "What war?"

"The-ah-er-a brief skirmish in South Africa, you see."

" South Africa? Of course, you are British. Your accent is quite pronounced. And-" Suddenly she stopped in mid-sentence. Her blue gaze was on his. He knew the moment she realized that she was embracing him and that he was a man-and an exceedingly rakish one at that. Or so many women had told him.

Her cheeks turned a very becoming shade of pink. She dropped her arms. "Perhaps you should sit," she said, low and huskily, now avoiding his eyes.

He could not help himself, he staggered, as if unbalanced by his bad knee without her support.

"Oh," she cried, with concern. Her arms went around him again.

He smiled at her as their gazes met. Poor, unfortunate Annabel Boothe? Inwardly, he did laugh. "Miss Boothe," he said, as gently as possible, not breaking contact. "Are you not wanted elsewhere?"

She remained flushed, her gaze holding his again. And as she grasped his meaning, her expression changed dramatically. It crumpled, and she stepped away from him. He wondered if he was about to have a weeping woman on his hands. Perhaps she would swoon. That would be convenient. "Miss Boothe?"

But she snatched the bottle and looked at him defiantly. "I am hardly wanted, sir," she snapped. But her tone was tremulous, ruining the effect of her glare.

"I am sure you are wanted very much, Miss Boothe," he said gently, wanting her to go her merry way. But now she was angry-a response he had not anticipated. ki have heard that the groom is smitten."

She gazed at him as if he had lost his mind.

He smiled again. "Smitten and with his own fortune, as well. A lady could hardly do better," he encouraged. And almost added, at your age.

"He is a worm."

He blinked. "I beg your pardon?" he asked.

Tears filled her eyes. "He is a spineless toad," she said, her full pink mouth trembling. "I cannot marry him!"

He was taken aback. "Perhaps, my dear Miss Boothe, you and your fiance should have a heart-to-heart after the nuptials?"

She continued to regard him as if he were a traitor. And then Pierce realized what was wrong. The organ had ceased playing. There was no wedding march. "Damn it," he said.

"There cannot be nuptials or I shall be unhappy for the rest of my life," she cried, drinking more champagne.

He could not believe his dilemma. "My dear Miss Boothe. This is your grand opportunity in life. Every young lady wishes to marry, especially a fine young man like your fiance."

"I do not wish to marry," she said. She pushed the bottle toward him. "Would you care for a drink?"

On any other occasion he would have said yes. "Miss Boothe. If you reject your fiance now, you may not have a second chance," he said as calmly as possible.

"Do you refer to the fact that I am twenty-three and a half years old, sir?" She swigged again.

He smiled, and it was forced. "I would hardly be so bold."

"I am being sold off like a milk cow," she said.

"You are hardly a milk cow, Miss Boo the. You are attractive, well-spoken, gracious, why, you are what every man dreams of." There, he thought, that should do it.

"Are you well?" she asked. "I think you are delusional."

Most women did not have such a word in their vocabulary, much less even know its meaning, and he could only stare.

Pierce was actually contemplating commanding her to go to the ballroom when he heard a woman calling Annabel's name from outside the library. "Annabel?"

He jerked around, alarmed.

"It's my mother," Annabel muttered. "Oh, God, why does the entire world think I should marry him?"

He whirled again. "Because you should, you can," he said, his hands on her shoulders, "and you will." His intention was to push her out of the room, by damn, before they were discovered-before he was discovered. But he felt something odd on his hip. Something hard. Something that should not be there. At first he thought it was the champagne bottle that she continued to grip by her skirts.

"Annabel? Dear, please, where are you?" Lucinda Boothe cried from somewhere just outside of the library in the corridor.

It was not the champagne bottle. Pierce felt the object slide down his thigh. He glanced down just in time to watch the magnificent triple-tiered pearl and diamond necklace slipping along his black pants leg to the floor.

"What is that!" Annabel cried, her gaze on the glittering necklace as well.

"Annabel?" Lucinda Boothe sounded as if she were in the doorway-or very close to it.

Pierce met Annabel's accusing blue gaze, smiled, and grabbed her. With one strong arm he clamped her to his torso. "Do not scream," he said calmly. "Or I will break your neck."

She froze. For a brief instant, her disbelieving gaze held his. "You wouldn't!" she gasped.

"Do not test me," he returned, bending to retrieve the necklace. And as he did so, she shifted, bent, and tried to jam her elbow right in his groin.

Pierce realized what she was doing before she could succeed and he managed to elude her and prevent a very mi ions injury, indeed. He jerked her up hard against him again. And this time, he used his free hand to point a revolver at the base of her skull. "Miss Boothe. That was hardly ladylike. I suggest you cooperate. You are a very beautiful woman. I like beautiful women. I do not want to hurt you, but I have no desire to find myself in jail."

"Then you should not be a thief," she spat, very flushed and struggling wildly now. "You won't shoot me. You are no cold-blooded killer, sir!"

"Do not bet your life upon it," he said coolly.

"Annabel!" Lucinda Boothe screamed.

Pierce turned, hugging Annabel to his body, and he smiled at Lucinda Boothe, who stood just inside the library doorway. The plump blond lady was in the midst of losing all her coloring. "Madam, I suggest that you stand still. I will not hurt your daughter."

"I am fine, Mama," Annabel said stoically. "He has stolen your jewels," she added, twisting to fling a grave look at him over her shoulder.

Lucinda Boothe stared at them soundlessly, then slumped to the floor in a dead faint.

"Mama!" Annabel cried. "She needs her salts. She is always fainting."

"Thank God for small things," Pierce said, hustling his hostage past the unconscious woman, out of the library and down the hall. He did not falter, in spite of the fact that two servants were in the foyer and they halted in their tracks, their eyes widening, their mouths forming O's.

"Help!" Annabel shrieked abruptly.

"Do not move," Pierce countermanded the staff, jerking on her. The servants remained frozen like statues. Annabel refused to move her feet so he dragged her across the foyer. His glance could not help but take in the ballroom. Heads were turning/ Gasps were heard. Four hundred guests were becoming cognizant of the abduction of the bride.

Pierce himself could hardly believe what was happening. He propelled the now-silent Annabel and himself to the threshold of the foyer.

"Braxton!" Boothe cried from behind him in shock and disbelief.

Pierce halted, facing Annabel's father. "I will not hurt her. Do not move."

Boothe was incredulous, but anger quickly overcame him. "You son of a bitch! Release my daughter!" he shouted from the entrance to the ballroom.

A young man had come up beside him, as blond and blue-eyed as Annabel, clad in a tailcoat with a red carnation pinned to his lapel. "Oh, God!" he cried. "He is stealing my bride! Someone do something!" A dozen guests crowded behind him and Boothe now.

"As long as nobody moves, she will be returned to you no worse for wear," he said, briefly pointing the revolver at the crowd. Collectively they gasped.

Pierce replaced the muzzle of the pistol to Annabel's skull and dragged her out of the house.

"You will regret this," she cried, but now she was running with him of her own volition.

"I am sure that I will," he said. But he was not thinking about the bride. He had never signaled Louie from the second floor as had been the plan, but the backup plan had called for Louie to have the Packard waiting for a getaway in thirty minutes should Pierce fail to signal. He was certain that thirty-five minutes or so had elapsed, but the Packard was nowhere to be seen. Had Pierce had the luxury, he would have been in a state of severe disbelief. Louie had never let him down before.