License to Thrill

danger to her emotional well-being. Not that her instincts had always led her down the right road, she admitted ruefully.
    She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. His dark hair was slicked back and he smelled faintly of strong soap. He'd traded his Italian suit for dark brown slacks, a thin long-sleeved jersey, and a tan leather vest. Kat winced. Denise was right, the man was gorgeous.
    When he shifted gears, she saw a flash of metal at his waist. Incredulous, she asked, "Are you carrying a gun to dinner?"
    His smile was tight-lipped. "Madam, I carry a gun to the shower."
    Kat perused his profile carefully. She didn't really know this man at all. "Am I in danger?"
    His dimple made an appearance. "Most definitely," he said huskily, then settled his dark gaze on her. "And I feel obligated to tell you I have more than one weapon on my person."
    Kat jerked her gaze back to the street in front of them and swallowed hard.
    Torbett's was crowded, but most patrons were hanging around the bar listening to the live music. They waited only a few minutes before their names were called. James stubbornly kept his hand on her waist as they wound their way to a small table in a corner beneath a hanging stained-glass lamp. She felt the imprint of his warm fingers even after she slid into the seat he pulled out for her.
    "Will you share a bottle of wine with me?" he asked Kat when the waitress arrived.
    She nodded, giving in to the shiver of desire that raced up her spine at the sound of his voice. And she wasn't the only woman affected, she noticed wryly. The waitress had nearly swooned when James spoke. When he bestowed the woman with a killer smile, Kat pressed her lips together and shook her head. Pity to the woman who lost her heart to this man. Because she'd spend the rest of her life sharing him with every female who crossed his path.
    "Very good choice," he said, looking around and nodding with approval.
    She smiled, her heart sinking with the realization that even the table between them could not keep him from crowding her senses. Feeling woefully out of control, Kat willed her pulse to slow as she methodically studied the menu for something low-calorie.
    "What do you recommend?" he asked.
    "If you like seafood, the grouper is wonderful, otherwise the rib-eye steak is the house specialty."
    "What are you having?"
    The white lasagna spoke to her, but she set the menu aside. "Probably a salad."
    He frowned. "Are you one of those rabbit eaters?"
    She gave him a wry smile. "Do I look like one of those rabbit eaters?"
    James leaned to the side and slowly swept her figure head to toe. "I quite like the way you look. Your friend is frightfully skinny."
    "Denise is a runway model," Kat explained. "She looks great in designer clothes."
    He lifted one eyebrow. "I can assure you, Pussy-Kat, men are much more concerned about how a woman looks out of her clothes."
    Kat's breasts tightened, and—thankfully—at that moment, the waitress brought their wine. James nodded, then waved away the woman, preferring to pour it himself. Watching the pale liquid splash into her glass, Kat felt herself relax slightly. Sure, the man was a little arrogant, but it felt good to be in the company of someone who was comfortable with himself. And with whom she felt so comfortable....
    His eyes danced as he raised his glass to hers. "To the beginning of a beautiful friendship."
    Lifting the glass to her mouth, she said, "I have the feeling you've made that toast hundreds of times."
    He pulled a wounded face. "Give me more credit—I've made that toast thousands of times."
    She shook her head and laughed. "Is that your fail-proof line for getting lucky?"
    "Do you think I'm trying to get lucky?"
    Kat set down her glass. "Yes."
    He flashed even, white teeth. "And what are my chances at this point?"
    Glancing down to study the hem of the napkin, Kat wet her lips carefully. The man was outrageously appealing, but she didn't engage in casual sex. Besides, something about James Donovan made her feel very vulnerable, dredging up the old nightmares of stepping onto the stage of a packed stadium and suddenly realizing you were stark naked. She lifted her gaze to his expectant one, and shook her head slightly. "I'm not the girl for you, James. If you want entertainment, it's still early and I'm sure you could—"
    "Yes," he cut in, "I'm sure I could." He gave her a small smile, then reached over to cover her hand with his. "But I assure you, Kat, I'm exactly