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He was wrapped around her now, and as snugly as she had imagined—no, hoped. She relaxed against him, and he began to trace teasing circles around the tip of her left breast with his right hand, while his left crept slowly down her stomach toward the sweet spot between her legs. His hips were pressed against her back, and there was no mistaking the intensity of his desire.
“This is what you had in mind all along, isn’t it?” she nearly moaned.
“Do you blame me?”
Darcy dipped her head. She supposed this was simply his usual routine. He would be in town for a few days to give a concert, and if he wanted to connect with a woman, he would waste no time in going about it. Even better than a sailor with a girl in every port, she bet he had women all around the world eagerly awaiting his return.
“Darcy? What was his name?”
Startled, Darcy turned to look up at him. “Whose name?”
“The man who broke your heart.”
Enfolded in his embrace, Darcy could not recall any of the other men she’d known. “Griffin Moore,” she breathed out softly.
Let a terrorist take her? Not over his dead body and damned soul…
