Sliding his hands along the sides of her chair, Simon bent his dark head to murmur in her ear. “Yes—finish your game quickly.”

Conscious of the other women’s interested gazes, Annabelle kept her face expressionless, even though she felt warmth creeping up from her neckline. “Why?” she asked, while his mouth remained near her ear.

“Because I’m going to make love to you in precisely five minutes,” he whispered back. “Wherever we happen to be…here…in our suite…or on the stairs. So if you would like some privacy, I suggest that you lose the game with all expediency.”

He wouldn’t, Annabelle thought, her heartbeat quickening with alarm. On the other hand, knowing Simon, there was a possibility…

With that thought in mind, Annabelle laid out a card with trembling fingers. The next player took a torturously long time to play one of her cards, and the next woman paused for a humorous exchange with her own husband, who had just come to the table. Aware of an accumulating mist of sweat on her bosom and brow, Annabelle considered ways to bow out of the game. The voice of reason calmed her, as she reflected that no matter how audacious Simon was, he wouldn’t actually ravish his wife on the hotel staircase. However, the voice of reason was abruptly strangled as Simon leisurely consulted his watch.

“You have three minutes,” came his soft murmur in her ear.

Somewhere in the midst of her agitation, Annabelle felt a shameful throb of sensation between her thighs, her body keenly attuned to the smoky promise in his voice. Pressing her legs together tightly, she waited with forced composure for her turn, even as her heart pounded in frantic drives. The players conversed lazily, fanning themselves and sending a waiter for another pitcher of iced lemonade. At last it was Annabelle’s turn, and she threw out her highest face card and drew another. Relief stabbed through her as she saw that her new card was worthless, and she cast down her hand. “I’m afraid I’m out,” she said, making an effort to keep from sounding breathless. “What a lovely game it was—thank you, I must go—”

“Do stay for the next round,” one of the ladies urged, and the others added their own entreaties.

“Yes, do!”

“At least have a glass of wine while we finish this hand—”

“Thank you, but—” Annabelle stood and gasped slightly as she felt the gentle pressure of Simon’s hand on her back. Her ni**les tightened inside her gown. “I’m simply exhausted from all the dancing last night,” she improvised. “I must have some rest before we attend the theater this evening.”

Followed by a chorus of farewells, and a few knowing glances, Annabelle attempted a dignified exit from the salon. As soon as they reached the winding staircase that led to the upper floors, Annabelle heaved a sigh of relief, and cast her husband a reproving glance. “If you were trying to embarrass me, you succeeded quite—what are you doing?” Her gown had become loose across her shoulders, and she realized with a little shock of amazement that he had unfastened some of her buttons. “Simon,” she hissed, “don’t you dare! No, stop that!” She hurried away from him, but he kept pace with her easily.

“You have one minute left.”

“Don’t be silly,” she said shortly. “We can’t possibly reach the suite in less than a minute, and you wouldn’t—” She broke off with a squeak as she felt him pluck at another button, and turned to swat at his marauding hands. Her gaze caught his, and she realized incredulously that he had every intention of carrying out his threat. “Simon, no.”

“Yes.” His eyes were filled with tigerish playfulness, and the look on his face was one that she had become entirely familiar with by now.

Hiking up her skirts, Annabelle turned to rush up the stairs, her breath coming in pants of panicked laughter. “You’re impossible! Leave me alone. You’re—oh, if anyone sees us like this, I’ll never forgive you!”

Simon followed without apparent hurry—but then, he didn’t have masses of skirts and binding underclothes to hamper him. She reached the top landing and rounded the corner, her knees aching as her legs pumped in a desperate ascent, stair after stair. Her skirts felt weighted, and her lungs were close to bursting. Oh, damn him for doing this to her—and damn herself for the airless giggles that kept slipping from her throat.

“Thirty seconds,” she heard behind her, and she wheezed as she arrived at the top of the second flight. Three long hallways before she reached their suite— and not nearly enough time. Clutching at the sagging front of her dress, she looked up and down the hallways that extended from the landing. She rushed toward the first door she could find, which opened into a small, unlit closet. The scent of starched linen billowed outward, and shelves of neatly stacked bed linens and toweling were just visible in the light from the hallway.

“Keep going,” Simon murmured, crowding her into the closet and closing the door.

Annabelle was immediately engulfed in darkness. Laughter swelled in her chest, and she shoved ineffectually at the hands that reached for her. It seemed that her husband had suddenly developed more arms than an octopus, unfastening her clothes and peeling them away much faster than she could move to defend herself. “What if you’ve locked us in here?” she asked, as her dress dropped to the floor.

“I’ll break the door down,” he replied, tugging at the tapes of her drawers. “Afterward.”