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CHAPTER 1

Sam watched from across the room, intrigued. No man stood beside her and she'd been alone since joining his guests an hour earlier. The fact that he didn't know this woman struck him as strange. It was, after all, a birthday party in his honor.

Tall and slender, with hair as black as his own in a twist against her neck, she wore an ebony dress; the perfect foil. Diamond earrings were the only accent. A handful of men who approached her had been coolly rebuffed. She hadn't danced with anyone or eaten a thing. The one glass of champagne she held acted as a stage prop as she wandered around the room.

Unable to deny himself, Sam moved across the crowded ballroom in her direction. Nodding and smiling, he maneuvered past friends and acquaintances.

She stood admiring one of the huge Greek tapestries that decorated the walls. Glancing to the side at his approach, her frosty glance dismissed him.

"They're from Skiros." He gestured toward the needlework. "Does your attention mean you admire them?"

She turned to face him. "It's difficult not to like anything Stephanos Mikos conjures up. Your mother has excellent taste."

Interesting. How does she know my mother chose them? He moved a step toward her. "I don't believe we've met. I'm Sam Preston."

"Mariah." Her expression solemn, she extended a slim hand, which he clasped.

"You don't have a last name?" He waited for it to be supplied, curious about her reticence.

Rich hazel eyes glowed gold in the light from the chandelier. "My last name is of no importance."

They stared at each other for a moment, then he gestured toward the center of the room. "May I have the pleasure of this dance?"

She nodded, moving ahead of him to the dance floor as the orchestra began to play. He ignored the curious eyes that followed their progress. When they began to dance, the indiscreet stared on.

He held her in his arms, testing for rejection. It didn't come. Instead, she moved closer, as if she'd been waiting just for him. The music softened and the lights lowered as the orchestra slid into a waltz. Neither he nor his dance partner spoke. The scent of perfume crept to him; an alluring mix of plum and honey. Laying his cheek against silky hair, he murmured, "Who are you, Mariah?"

She didn't reply.

They danced for half an hour, attracting attention and gossip. Finally, she stepped away and he spoke. "Would you like a drink?"

Mariah looked around the room, as if she'd forgotten they weren't alone. She pointed toward the doors to the terrace. "I thought I might get some fresh air."

He held out his arm. Taking it, she followed him away from the crowd. Even on the terrace, they weren't alone. Other couples gathered outside, talking or smoking cigarettes. He tugged Mariah toward a darkened corner.

Without pause, he put his arms around her. Sensing surprise, but no resistance, he brushed her lips with his own. His gentle approach ceased when soft hands threaded through his hair and pulled him closer. When her mouth opened under his, he plundered, taking heat and sweetness, fanning the flames. He felt curves and muscle meet. It was as if she'd been custom ordered for him.

Suspicion reared its ugly head. He pulled away, searching her face for answers. "Where did you come from?"

Her expression was dark, unreadable. "I don't know what you mean."

"I think you do. Did someone pay you to be my present?"

Sam watched as his words sank in and disbelief flashed across that flawless face, quickly replaced by anger. "You think I'm a prostitute?" Her response came in a tone just above a whisper, but he heard the outrage as if it were a shout. He turned to make sure no one lingered close enough to hear their words.

The doors burst open, disgorging a raucous group of guests, his best friend, Evan, leading the pack. "Sam! The party's getting awfully dull without the birthday boy." The couples that followed surrounded Sam, poking fun at his old age and how they thought he had retired for the night.

Mariah was gone. In the rush, she had slipped away.

After glancing around the terrace to make sure of her exit, he led his group of friends back inside, ignoring their taunts as he peered through the masses. Dozens of black dresses, none of them worn by the right woman. For twenty minutes, he worked the crowd, investigating every nook and cranny of the massive space. Sam checked every probable hiding place, followed by a few less probable, but in the end, he had to face facts. He had blown an incredible attraction, because of his cynicism. His bed would feel colder than ever tonight.

* * *

Mariah braced herself against the cool, marble bathroom counter and looked at her reflection in the ornate mirror. Of all the scenarios she had prepared for, this one had never been considered. He thinks I'm a prostitute. She couldn't laugh, not even at herself. She couldn't cry, either. Sulking in the bathroom didn't change the facts. Years of preparation, and she had still failed to carry out her plan.

Turning her head to the side, she admired the glossy black, fresh from the salon. So different from her natural color, yet it suited the woman of mystery she had chosen to become tonight. A lot of money had been invested, now destined to simply get washed right back down the drain. Stop whining, she told herself and straightened her posture. She ignored the other women who entered as she repaired her lipstick with painstaking care and checked in the mirror one last time. It proved essential that she looked unruffled as she made her exit, so as not to attract attention. At least her research had indicated the quickest way out of the hotel.

Taking a calming breath, she opened the door and stepped into the dimness of the hall. A hand closed around her shoulder and Sam's voice followed, from behind. "I should have realized this is where you'd escaped to."

She sidled away, biting the soft flesh on the inside of her lip to help maintain her composure. "I'm on my way out, Mr. Preston. If you'll excuse me."

"No." He moved to block the exit. "I won't."

Mariah sent him a scathing look.

Sam took a small step back. "I owe you an apology. A man in my position can't survive without skepticism." He smiled, eyes glittering. "I'm sorry. In this case, I shouldn't have questioned my good fortune."

"Apology accepted." She edged past him. "But I really do have to leave."

"I hope you'll reconsider." His voice was low, rough. "I'm due at the microphone to receive my birthday toast in a few minutes. Come with me."

They stared at each other. He reached up and brushed her cheek with one finger. The chemistry hung in the air between them and she found it impossible to walk away.

Nodding, she changed direction and took his arm, heading back to the music.

* * *

Sam felt as if every gaze focused on them. They wound their way to the stage where his mother waited. Looking like the very essence of New York society, Adele Preston wore a regal, mint green, beaded dress, her wavy, gray hair in an upsweep. She appeared ten years younger than her actual age of sixty-six. Gesturing toward them, she tapped her watch, but Mariah hung back. When Sam gave an impatient tug, she whispered in his ear, "I prefer to wait here."

He couldn't afford to ruin things again, so he reluctantly released her hand. Stepping to his mother's side, he kissed her on the cheek. With a smile, she looked pointedly in Mariah's direction. "You seem to be enjoying yourself."

Sam frowned. There was no way to explain this woman to his mother, so he let the comment pass. He watched Adele step to the microphone and thank the guests for their attendance. In his youth, this annual party had been embarrassing, but at the ripe old age of thirty-five, he'd grown used to it. His mother had once confided that she garnered more donations for charity at this party than all of her other functions combined. He'd been a little shocked and then impressed at her initiative, so he put up with the mass of people and the toast as a favor to her.

As the crowd raised their glasses and the band struck up 'Happy Birthday,' Mariah lifted a glass in a toast, eyebrows raised, mimicking the other guests. Sam turned back to say a few words of thanks to his guests, then stepped away from the microphone.

To his relief, she still waited, off to one side of the stage. He nodded to an opening in the curtain and they exited, walking down a few steps to a long hall. There was no one around. The party stayed behind them, but the mellowed sound of instruments followed, as did the dull drone of voices. Sam paused and looked down at his companion. "Thank you for staying. You're very generous giving me a second chance."

A strangled laugh escaped her lips. "I'm hoping it will be my pleasure."

He understood the implication. There was something more going on here, but he would have all night to discover what hid behind that flawless face. Lifting her unadorned left hand, he asked, "Is there anyone I should know about?" When she paused, he felt a lurch of anger. To his knowledge, he had never touched another man's wife.

Hazel eyes met his. "No. There's no one."

Sam didn't stop to question why a woman like this would be alone. When they kissed this time, demand and scorching heat flamed to life. Mariah softened and he backed her to the wall, letting his body make contact, chest-to-chest, thigh-to-thigh. He felt, as much as heard, her soft exhale of surrender. When his mouth sampled the satin of her throat, he stepped away. "Come to bed, Mariah. I want more than you can give me here." He waited, his breath hitching at the idea of being refused. The gentleman in him wouldn't allow him to press.

She looked up, her expression unexpectedly vulnerable. "Where?"

Leading the way around a corner to a private elevator, he paused. "I live upstairs, in the penthouse." He pulled the key out of his pocket, inserted it and the doors opened. Draped and mirrored, the cocoon-like lift made the short ride seem endless. Mariah looked relieved when the doors opened again.

He watched her reflection as she moved toward the broad expanse of windows and came to a standstill in the middle of his living room. After locking the elevator for the night, he followed, sliding his arms around her waist. Turning in the circle of his embrace, she touched him. First his face and his neck, then her touch roamed further. Motionless, he reveled in the sensations her taunting hands elicited. She pushed the tuxedo jacket off his shoulders. Like magic, the cummerbund followed. Nails grated down his back until he felt their presence through the cloth of his pants.

Gritting his teeth against the pleasure, he reached for the delicate zipper of Mariah's dress.

She pushed his hand away. "You, first." The intensity on her face mesmerized him. Nimble fingers tackled the buttons on his shirt, then combed through the revealed chest hair. Bending, she tasted his skin. Sweat broke out on his forehead. When her hands met the button on his pants, she sank to her knees in front of him. Stopping to rub her cheek against the hard bulge, she inched the zipper down, her knuckles brushing him.

It took his breath away. "Damn it, Mariah." Reaching down, he scooped her into his arms. In five long strides, he reached his bedroom, five more brought him to the edge of the bed. Placing her with painstaking care on top of the sheets, he began stripping off his clothes, never losing eye contact. Finished, he stood in the spare light from the window, then, leaning down, began to undress her. Easing off high heels, his hands slid up under the black dress. It took a minute to deal with the garters he found there.

She stroked his arm, then lifted her body, so he could slide off the dress. The sight of her lying there, lush breasts exposed, hair tumbled on the pillow, swept everything else from his mind.

Taking one slender foot in his hand, he traced her instep with his tongue, traveling upward. Teasing, he made a circuitous route from knee to the swell of hip and on to her flat stomach. She squirmed under the onslaught, murmuring an unintelligible response.

Dropping kisses onto the silky skin, he slipped his fingers up between her legs. He found rich, damp heat waiting and he rubbed gently, lifting his head to watch for response. Eyes closed, her body arched off the bed, searching for more.

"Look at me." He moved up alongside, his hand still stroking. Her eyes crept open; in them he read both passion and wariness. "What do you want from me, Mariah?"

She stretched a hand toward him. "Just one night."

Sam barely heard the whispered words. He couldn't make himself ask why just one. At this point, he'd ceased to care.

Her body clenched his fingers, a moan escaped and she started to thrash away from him. He held her hard, in place, moving over her. Starving now, in one surge he pushed inside. She was so tight, it made him gasp and he stopped, fighting for control. Her face turned away from him. "Are you all right?"

He saw a tear roll off her lashes as she looked at him and cursed himself for his impatience. When he started to move away, she grabbed his shoulder, nails gripping. "Don't stop."

Wiping her cheek, he held her gaze. "I don't want to hurt you."

"It's okay, now." She reached up to touch his face. "Please."

With a groan of relief, he eased back inside. Her body accepted him this time, muscles snug, but no longer tight. He buried his face against her neck. Hands trailed down his back, nails branding him and he answered her desire by starting an easy rhythm. It seemed as if she were touching him everywhere, her hands and nails, her lips, as if she couldn't get enough. He ached to give her more.

She murmured, in the wordless language of lovers and so he knew what offered the most pleasure. And when she wrapped strong legs around him and nipped his neck, he lost all control, plunging hard, hurled into release, carrying her with him.

They lay wrapped together for long minutes in trembling aftermath. Then, holding her close, he rolled over, reversing their positions. She lay acquiescent, head on his chest, while he smoothed his hands down her back.

"Tell me." His voice sounded too loud in the stillness. "Tell me your last name." Feeling the sudden rigidity that stole up her spine, he lifted her face and studied it. "You don't need to play games with me. I've shown how much I want you."

"Show me again." She shifted so her knees were on each side of his hips.

He laughed in protest. "I'm not eighteen anymore."

An odd smile crossed her face. "No," she murmured, stretching a hand out behind. "You're not." Her touch grazed him and he saw her eyes glimmer when his body gave an answering pulse. When she lifted one leg off of him, he grumbled in protest. In response, she murmured, "Shut your eyes."

He obeyed, feeling her shift to a position beside his hips. A hand closed around him, firm and sure, squeezing gently. She shifted again and he tensed, feeling the warmth of her breath, then her mouth, surrounding him. Energy and sensation rolled back to him in waves. He moved into the contact, helpless. The feel of silky hair on his thigh and that hot, wet grasp robbed him of all conscious thought.

When she stopped to shift position, he yanked her up and over him, impaling her with a fierceness that caught him unawares. There was no hesitation now; he pumped into her and she hung on, arching, asking for more. He came like a geyser, unable to wait, thankful to feel her join him at the last minute.

She sank onto his chest, slipping over to curl in the crook of his arm. Sam willed his heart to stop racing. After a few minutes, he realized something. "You didn't tell me who you are."

Closed eyes and even breathing were her only response.

Looking down at her sated face, he made an oath. "You'll tell me in the morning," he whispered, knowing she couldn't hear. "One night won't be enough for either of us."

The first clue came when Sam touched cool Egyptian cotton instead of warm, pliant flesh. He opened his eyes, wincing at the sun's glare streaming through the uncovered window. He'd been left with only a sheet, the blanket tangled in a heap on the floor.

"Mariah?" The name echoed around the apartment. Suspicion brought him awake quicker than caffeine. Sam leapt out of bed, striding past the empty bathroom, hoping against evidence she remained somewhere in the suite. He slammed into the living room, the door bouncing off the wall behind him. A few pieces of clothing littered the room, all of them part of his outfit from the previous night. Both Mariah and her belongings were gone.

Cursing, he reached for the hotel phone. A staff member at the front desk picked up and he didn't bother with manners. "Get me Antoine!" Pacing, he waited for the concierge to answer.

"Mr. Preston?" The smooth voice of the man who had run the hotel lobby for twenty years came on the line.

"Did you see a woman leave early this morning? tall, very attractive, black hair, black dress?"

The older man chuckled. "Hard to miss her, sir. About five-thirty this morning. I hailed her a cab."

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Excerpted from "Just One Night"
by .
Copyright © 2019 Dianne McCartney.
Excerpted by permission of The Wild Rose Press, Inc..
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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