Marriage by Mistake

hugged her figure, outlining every curve and angle with confidence and approval. Over this swirled a Chinese silk duster with giant red flowers splashed upon it, hiding and revealing the tight pantsuit. It was an unusual choice, somehow elegant, unexpectedly sophisticated.
    And hot.
    Dean couldn't swallow. He couldn't move. He was like a pointer who'd found his prey; taut, tensed, trembling.
    Her lashes lowered. She started down the stairs. Toe down, heel down, sway of the hip. Dean felt his paralysis leave, replaced by the urge to meet her halfway, to press his body against hers and move her going up again, to the bedrooms.
    How he would like to rip off that tantalizing pantsuit and engage in an activity quite different from listening to opera.
    The abrupt vehemence of the thought snapped Dean out of it. He took a step back. His eyes narrowed as she slinked herself the rest of the way down the stairs.
    Fine, she'd passed the dress test. Her choice of clothes made him want her more than ever. But she was going to hate the opera. He was certain of it. She would yawn, fidget, and thus display her utter incompatibility.
    She stopped at the bottom of the stairs, looked him straight in the eye, and tilted her head.
    So, do you want me yet? Are you panting and begging on your knees ?
    She gave him a little smile.
    Have I got you completely in my power ?
    Dean tightened his jaw. Just a few hours, and then he could answer that question in the negative. Yes, he liked what she was wearing, but she was going to hate the opera. Discovering how very different she was, intellectually and socially, would set him free. This—this clawing need would depart for good.
    "Well," she asked. Her voice was breathless, sexy. "Are we ready to go?"
    His jaw relaxed. He even smiled. "Oh, we're ready." He took her arm. "Are we ever."

    CHAPTER EIGHT

    "Well, if that wasn't the most—exciting—moving—tremendous piece of stage artistry I have ever seen!" Kelly fanned herself with her program as Dean channeled them through the milling crowd and toward the exit. "Really! The costumes, the drama. The music!" Kelly heaved a deep sigh. "I never knew opera was so exciting ."
    Dean answered not a word, just kept moving them with stoic persistence toward the side exit door. Kelly allowed herself to be tugged, fanning herself with her program and rather enjoying the man doing the work for a change.
    She'd soon discovered that going out on a date with Dean was far different from her usual experience: that being where she researched the show times, where she found a method of transportation, and where, more often than not, she picked up the tab. With Dean, he'd been the one to do all of that, and more. He'd taken care of her, and Kelly couldn't help it. She liked it.
    "It's good I self-parked and not valeted," Dean muttered, shoving politely through the crowd. "Or we'd never get home."
    "Home?" Kelly's joyful smile faded. "We're going straight home?"
    He turned back to shoot her a glance. "Where else would we go?"
    Kelly blinked. "I don't know." Indeed, she'd thought five hours more time than she could possibly endure with her husband. Now she felt reluctant to come to the end of it.
    He'd been warily attentive all evening. She wasn't used to attentiveness. And he'd come out of his shell for a minute or two there. Although he hadn't answered her rapt comments on the opera just now, his attention on the stage during the performance had been complete and genuine. Kelly could swear he'd been moved. She tilted her head. "I wouldn't mind getting some coffee."
    "Coffee." Dean halted his progress through the crowd. Immediately, they were shoved from behind. He had to grab Kelly to keep them both from toppling. With his fingers gripping her shoulders and their bodies pressed together, they were in a sudden embrace. Kelly could feel the strength of his chest against her breast and the barely-there stubble of his chin on her forehead. She could feel the instant blaze beneath her skin.
    He grunted and disentangled from her, immediately shooting out his wrist to look at his watch. "Coffee?" he repeated, and glared at the poor watch.
    Kelly faltered. Was he glaring at his watch because he didn't want to spend more time with her? Or because his heart had raced just then, too, and he didn't want her to know? To back up a step, had he really been moved by the opera, or was she making up things about his personality again, things to support her own breathlessness in