“I don’t get it.”

The words held such a note of puzzlement, Pamela Singer smiled even as she turned to look at the man who’d spoken them.

The expression of confusion on his face matched perfectly the tone of his voice. He stood taller than her five-foot-seven frame, with black hair long enough to brush his collar. His eyes, an electric blue, drew her gaze almost hypnotically. The gods must have given him that chiselled visage, that classic male beauty. She tried very hard not to notice how good-looking he was. Neither did she acknowledge to herself—overmuch—that something about him put a hum in her bloodstream. Because looking at him was far more pleasing than it should be, she turned her attention instead to the painting he was studying.

The piece, entitled “Dawn Hybrid,” was one the Langdon Gallery in Philadelphia had only recently acquired. Considered a fine example of the Minimalist style and painted in the early nineteen seventies, the painting had been purchased from a private collector. Judging by the way the gallery had showcased the piece, they considered it the cornerstone of their Twentieth Century American collection.

The man turned to her, and Pamela tried in vain to lasso her hormones. Gazing at him in profile had been thrill enough. Seeing him eye-to-eye was almost too much.

“I just don’t get it,” he said again. “This isn’t art. It’s…lines on a canvas. This could have been turned out by any third-grader in any school in the country.”

Normally, Pamela’s love of art would cause her hackles to rise at the sound of such heresy. But for some reason, that sentiment from this man, looking truly confused and adorable as he expressed it didn’t incite her ire at all. Laughing softly, she looked at the painting, trying to see it through his eyes.

“Not many people are fans of the Minimalist style.”

“Minimalist, is it? Usually, I agree with the concept that less is more. But in this case…”

He smiled at her, and when her heart gave a little lurch, Pamela knew she was in deep trouble. Just when she thought she couldn’t sink any farther, a look of chagrin crossed his face.

“Um…I didn’t just insult you or anything, did I?”

Before she could answer, he continued on. “Hell, of course I did. Sorry. My mother spent a lot of time taking me through art galleries, and so I understand more than most that art is in the eye of the beholder. Dylan Pierce.” He held out his hand.

Looking from his now-hopeful expression to his outstretched hand, Pamela knew that she was completely captivated. You would think that after what happened with Dmitri, I’d know better. With a sense of inevitability, she accepted the handshake.

“You really didn’t offend me, though I should have been. Pamela Singer.”

“I think you’re just being generous.”

He flashed another smile and then turned his attention back to the art. “I don’t hate art, really. I just don’t understand it. My idea of what defines art is probably old-fashioned. You know, fruit in a bowl, portraits, that sort of thing.”

“What about Impressionism?”

“Is that where it almost looks like real things but the edges are fuzzed?”

Pamela had never heard the style described in quite that way before. She couldn’t hold back her laugh. “Yes, that would be it.”

He tilted his head to one side and shot her a look she thought should belong to a little boy trying to worm some treat.

“You have a nice laugh.” As if realizing that was perhaps too personal an observation, he broke eye contact, looked back at the painting for a moment, then turned back to her. “Mother tried her best to educate me, but for reasons unknown, my brain refused to absorb details or acquire appreciation. All I really know about art is that I like what I like. And this unfortunately is not it.”

“That’s fair enough. But I have to ask you, that being the case, what are you doing here?”

“We made a large donation to the Langdon to finance this exhibit. As an executive vice president, it was my duty to come and see it.”

Pamela tilted her head, something she knew she did when trying to recall details. “You’re with the Carstairs Hotel Group?”

“I am. Rather unavoidable since my paternal grandmother is Eugenia Carstairs.”

This meant, Pamela reflected, that he came from money, and lots of it. “I’d heard your grandmother retired recently to some place exotic…the Mediterranean, was it?”

“Gran doesn’t know the meaning of the word retirement.”

There was a wealth of affection in his voice, and Pamela felt her heart melt a little more. This was dangerous. All she had to do was look back a few short months to know just how dangerous letting down her guard could be. She’d opened her heart to Dmitri Andropolis, fallen completely under his spell. That transformation hadn’t happened in just a few minutes in an art gallery, either, but had developed over several weeks.

She was still smarting from his fit of temper, although the bruises had long since faded. No man, not even any of her former foster fathers, had ever hit her before.

Pamela was no one’s victim. She’d turned her back and walked away from Dmitri, despite the fact she’d been in love with him. He’d tried to apologize, of course, but after a few weeks had finally understood there would be no second chance from her.

She brought her attention back to the present. Dylan seemed different than any man she’d ever met. The information he’d given as to his identity had been done without airs, as a normal part of the conversation. Any man whose voice softened at the mention of his mother and grandmother was, she decided, a man worth getting to know a bit better. Who knew, he might make a good friend.

She had her sisters, of course, but few other friends at the moment. The only question was could she keep him in that position?

His hands were shaking.

Dylan couldn’t remember if he’d ever before wanted a woman so badly that his hands shook. He knew she saw it, too, as he inserted the key into the lock. He didn’t care about that. He didn’t care that this was the woman who had brought his brother to ruin, either. There was only one thing he cared about: getting his hands on Pamela Singer as quickly as possible. He turned to her the moment the door closed behind them.

“Come here.”

He didn’t give her a chance to respond. He seized on her arms and pulled her up and into his kiss.

When he’d tasted her for the first time downstairs, he’d thought—he’d hoped—that sense of destiny, that taste of ambrosia had been a trick of the summer night, the lights, and the joie de vivre of the crowd that had surrounded them.

Heaven. How could she taste like heaven, feel better than every wet dream he’d ever had? Her heat seeped into him, and he pulled her closer, pressing her female curves against his hard and hungry body. Her arms went around his neck as his hands splayed across her bottom, bringing her to his erection.

Drinking her in, he lifted her off her feet, grunting when she wrapped her legs around him.

He’d only been in residence in this penthouse a week, but he found the bedroom without taking his lips from hers. Her tongue danced with his, their flavors mixing in a concoction more potent than a wizard’s potion. Soft and sweet, hot and heady, Dylan felt himself succumb completely to her spell. Not wanting to let her go even for a moment, he fell with her to the bed.

He sought the flavor of her cheeks, her neck, and reveled in her touch, so anxious against his scalp. Pamela was devouring him in turn, and that thrilled him beyond measure. No other woman before her has mattered. The image flashed of a violent sea, of his being lured to rocky ruin on the shore of some forgotten, mythical island. Then the image was gone, forced out by his need for her and his own conscious choice.

He looked down at her while he raced to catch his breath. Her eyes were clouded with passion, edged with confusion.

“I don’t usually—”

Stroking a finger lightly across her mouth, he silenced her. He didn’t want her to speak, didn’t want a call to reason, not for either of them. He knew he was on dangerous ground, knew he should get up, walk away, hell, walk all the way back to Greece. But he couldn’t.

He wouldn’t.

“I know you don’t usually. Neither do I. Let’s not talk. Let’s just feel.”

For one instant, he thought she would refuse him. He’d let her go, of course. He wasn’t an animal. But then her expression cleared, and she stroked his face gently.

A loving gesture, not a lustful one. He realized that, for Pamela, no matter what else there was to her, having sex would never be a matter of whim, of lust only.

He refused to think what more it could be. With fingers that had calmed, he began to open her blouse.

Creamy flesh and white lace enticed him. Compelled, he set his mouth on her, sampling her collarbone, her throat, as his busy fingers finished their task. Lifting her, he swept the silky fabric from her, leaving only her bra covering her plump breasts. He felt his smile spread as he took in the front closure on the garment. His mouth set about freeing her.

Her groan of arousal spurred him on, and he drew a pebbled nipple even deeper into his mouth. Her hands tugged at his clothing. He lifted up from her slightly.

Pamela’s hands were quick and competent as they loosed his tie and then his buttons. The moment the last one opened, he whipped off his shirt, not caring that the fine linen fell to the floor in a heap. The touch of her hands on his chest, her fingers splaying to caress and grip, shot straight to his groin.

Her arms crept up to twine around his neck. He shook his head. Reaching down, he slipped the button on her trousers from its mooring and pulled the zipper down. Their hands worked together quickly to get the clothes off.

The dark hair covering her intimate flesh was the same delectable shade as the rest of her hair and promised to be just as soft. Unable to resist, he stroked her gently, his touch a light and fleeting caress. He chuckled when she bowed off the bed.

Every bit of humor left him when she reached out and returned the intimacy, her hand pressing against the ridge covered by his pants. It took him only moments to shed the rest of his clothes. He reached into the drawer of his bedside table, not taking his eyes from her, and grabbed a tiny foil packet. Tearing it open with his teeth, he pulled out the condom, rolled it on, and covered her.