Warrior For One Night. Nancy Gideon

placed in a hotel safe-deposit box and it was there he said a clipped good-night to her. As he turned away, she snagged him with that quiet call of his name.

      “Business casual.”

      “What?”

      “Dress for tomorrow night. Unless you’d prefer escort service.”

      At his slight smile when he caught the reference, she added, “Drive or fly?”

      “I’ll meet you there. I’m looking up a friend for drinks afterward.”

      Her features remained carefully neutral. “Fine. Seven.” She told him the address. He didn’t write it down. Then, with a nod and the small curve of his smile, he disappeared into the mob on the casino floor.

      

      A collection of Tahoe’s elite gathered in the multilevel gallery in the silent shadow of the off-season ski runs to nibble on canapés, sip fairly decent champagne and stroll amongst Karen Parrish’s paintings, admiring and making small talk. Mel could spend hours gazing at her cousin’s ethereal landscapes, but after the first five minutes, her tolerance for chitchat was expended. The only things that made it bearable were the sounds of her cousin’s laughter and the man she pretended not to be watching for.

      “You just missed Quinn. He could only stay for a minute.”

      Mel smiled tightly, forgiving her cousin for the softening of her voice and heart. And head. Karen was usually so much smarter. But she’d always had an unrequited yearning where the Texas playboy was concerned. “Probably just as well considering civil conversation is out of the question between us.”

      “Then what is between you?”

      Mel was busy sifting through the new arrivals and missed the edge to the question. “A good right hook, if I had my way. Naylor’s a pain in the behind. Always was. Always will be.”