"Did you?" She quivered as she fought back another laugh. "Joseph Smith?" She ducked her head against his shoulder to hide her expression. She had been bored, chatting with people with whom she had nothing in common, but now energy was flowing through every cell in her body.
"Joseph Temple, actually. I told him to introduce me as Mr. Smith."
"Temple," she repeated, burning the name in her brain cells. The one thing she couldn't do was slip up and call him John.
"Where's your room?"
"It's in the east wing. It's called the Garden room, and it has its own private balcony." She had counted the doors, so she could tell him exactly how to reach it. "Go up the stairs, take the hallway to the right. Go down ten doors, turn left, and it's the third door on the right."
"Leave the balcony doors unlocked."
"Why? Locks don't mean anything to you."
His arm tightened around her waist in a punishing squeeze for her teasing. Beneath the silk of his tuxedo, his chest was like iron. He was holding her so closely her breasts were flattened against him. The heat of his body seeped through the layers of clothing between them, and the scent of him wrapped around her, warm and masculine and flavored with some subtle cologne.
"You're holding me too close," she said, faint panic welling up in her, because the pleasure she felt was far from safe. Her hands pushed against his chest, not hard enough to be noticeable but enough to lever her upper body an inch away from him.
He simply gathered her back in, the strength in his arms overpowering her without effort. "I'm in love with you, remember? And you're helplessly fascinated by me."
How did he know? The question seared through her brain, a split second before she remembered the scenario they were enacting.
The pattern of the dance had brought them near the open French doors. He made a swooping turn and she found herself out on the patio. The night was warm, but still cooler, and much fresher, than the air inside, with so many people in one room. There were people sitting at the small tables scattered about the patio, talking and laughing, but the noise level dropped dramatically.
He stopped dancing and led her down the steps into the garden. The sweet, peppery scent of roses filled the air. Small gravel crunched under their shoes as they walked a little way down one of the paths. Though the grounds were too well-lit for there to be complete darkness, the garden provided at least some semblance of privacy.
"This is far enough," John said, stopping and turning to face her. "He can still see us." Before she had any idea what he was about to do, he framed her face with his hands and kissed her.
Automatically her hands came up and locked around his wrists. Her breath stopped for two long heartbeats, and her knees went weak. She felt as if he were supporting her only with the warm clasp of his hands on her face, though the pressure was too light to do any such thing.
His kiss was light at first, a tender tasting, an exploration. She stood motionless, dazzled by the pleasure of the simple caress, then returned it with gentle pressure. He slanted his head more and deepened the kiss, his tongue probing her mouth. Then something hot exploded inside her, and she sagged against him. He released her face and folded her in his arms, tighter than before, closer, so close she was welded to him from breast to thigh.
His mouth was ravaging, devouring. He kissed her the way he shouldn't, the way she hadn't let herself imagine: deeply, intensely, the way a man kissed a woman right before he rolled her on her back and slid between her legs. And she accepted those kisses, welcomed them, returned them. Her tongue played with his, her arms lifted to twine tightly around his neck. Her body reached to his, and she discovered he was rock hard, his erection pressed against her stomach.
The discovery so shocked her that she tore herself out of his arms, staggering back. He grabbed her arm to steady her, then immediately let his hand fall to his side. They faced each other in the scented garden, the dimness of the light not dim enough. She could see the cool, focused expression in his eyes, and the realization was another punch in the stomach. Those kisses had rocked her foundation, but John, despite the automatic response of his body, had only been doing his job. Working. Pretending to be smitten.
And Ronsard was watching them, weighing what had just happened. Niema swallowed, trying to decide what she should do. Slap John's-Temple's- face? She had been a willing participant, and Niema Jamieson wasn't a hypocrite.
Forget Niema Jamieson; she was too shattered to play a role right now. She reached down into who she really was, Niema Burdock, and found that the two women were much the same. Had John planned that deliberately, made Niema Jamieson's history so close to her own so she was essentially playing herself?
But it was Niema Burdock who gathered her dignity around her, turned, and walked quietly away. No histrionics. She made her way back up the path toward the patio and saw that Ronsard was indeed standing just outside the ballroom doors, watching them. With the bright light behind him, she couldn't read his expression, but she braced herself and approached him.
He was silent, looking down at her. She met his gaze, inwardly flinching at the cynical disillusionment she knew she would see there, but instead all she could find was concern. Her lips trembled, and suddenly tears blurred her vision.
"Oh, God," she whispered. "How?"
Ronsard extended his arm to her and she took it, and he walked her back inside as if nothing had happened. He didn't appear to hurry, but still their progress across the crowded room was mercifully fast. Her fingers dug into his arm as she dung for support. Her legs were shaking. Her entire body was shaking, fine tremors rocking her muscles.