stage, a lean figure emerged, wearing Kip Corrigan’s signature black pants and shirt. The band struck up a resounding rendition of the theme song from Galaxy’s End, and amidst the swell of music, the man did a quick two-step dance move for the crowd, unleashing another, louder round of applause and screaming, before he strode across the stage toward the microphone.
Graeme saluted the band, kissed the emcee on both cheeks and then turned to the crowd with a wave. The spotlight turned his cropped hair into a gleaming halo of brown and bronze highlights, and from where Lara sat, a mere twenty feet from the stage, she could see his easy grin and the way his blue-green eyes scanned the crowd.
She couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.
For an instant, her heart stopped beating, and then it exploded back into frenzied action. Lara had known that when she finally saw Graeme again she’d have a strong physical reaction, but never in her wildest imaginings had she thought she might actually expire on the spot.
Graeme was speaking into the microphone, but Lara couldn’t hear anything beyond the roaring of her own blood in her ears. From where she sat, she could see the changes that five years had wrought, sculpting his face, tracing it with experience, and turning it from attractive to unforgettable. Lara felt something in her chest tear free with a painful wrench. She was only dimly aware of women rising from the nearby tables and moving forward, jostling each other in their urgency to get closer to the stage.
Closer to him.
Her mask was suffocating her.
She couldn’t breathe, and fluttering wings of blackness appeared at the outer edges of her vision. She felt overheated and flushed. Suddenly, the small bottle of wine and two martinis she’d consumed threatened to make a reappearance.
She surged to her feet with a muttered apology, intent only on escaping the ballroom, unaware that the trailing edge of the tablecloth had become snagged on her metal bikini bottom. Lara turned to leave, dragging the tablecloth with her. As if in slow motion, plates of food and glassware crashed to the floor and the six costumed women who had been sitting with her scrambled to get out of the way, knocking over chairs and crying out in surprise.
For a moment, the band stopped playing and it seemed every face in the ballroom turned in her direction. Horrified, Lara looked toward the stage.
Graeme stared back at her.
For one, brief instant, their gazes collided. A renewed surge of heat swept through Lara, fierce and swift, and then receded, leaving her bathed in a cold, clammy sweat.
With a small sound of despair, she jerked the tablecloth free of her costume and fled toward the nearest exit, which opened into a service corridor. She was only dimly aware of the hotel staff passing on either side of her as she dashed toward an elevator at the end of the hallway. A startled waiter scooted out of her way as she flung herself at the doors, frantically pressing the button for them to open.
“Whoa, Princess Leia, that’s a private service elevator,” the waiter gasped, staring at her in dismay. “Jesus, what the hell is going on?”
Following his gaze, Lara glanced back in the direction she’d come from, and nearly fainted with panic. Graeme Hamilton himself was sprinting toward her, and hot on his heels was a horde of lust-crazed women, arms outstretched as they screamed his name.
Behind her, the elevator doors swished open and Lara flung herself inside. With her breath coming in painful hitches, she desperately punched at the buttons and watched with growing dread as Graeme and the pursuing crowd of women rapidly closed the distance between them.
“Please, please, please,” she whispered, but whether her chant was for Graeme to reach the elevator in time, or not, she couldn’t say.
Closer. Closer.
The doors started to swish shut, but even as Lara sagged against the wall in utter relief, a hand thrust itself between them, forcing them open. Lara watched in dismay as Graeme squeezed through, his breathing harsh. He pressed the button to close the doors and held his finger there, even as he took a protective stance in the opening. At the last instant, when it seemed the women would simply stampede him, the elevator doors closed.
“Christ,” he muttered, and his voice washed over her, stirring her senses and catapulting her back five years.
Lara drank in the sight of him. He was larger than she remembered. He completely dominated the small space, and she fisted her hands behind her back to keep from reaching out and touching him. She pressed herself into the corner of the compartment and hardly dared to breathe.
Maybe he wouldn’t notice her.
Maybe, if she was very lucky, the elevator’s dim lighting and the mask would be enough to keep him from recognizing her, although she knew the likelihood of that happening was about nil. How humiliating to be caught attending a fan festival for your ex-husband …current husband. Whatever.
With any luck, he wouldn’t realize who she was, and he’d think she was merely playing out her role of submissive slave by keeping her head down. Her heart still thudded hard against her ribs and her palms were slick with moisture.
She’d wanted to see Graeme, but not like this, and especially not in a state of near undress! Everything about this first encounter was wrong. She’d wanted to be on solid footing, suitably garbed in her best business suit so that he’d have no doubts that she’d both grown up and moved on. She’d wanted to be self-assured and emotionally distant, not a pile of quivering nerve endings and heightened awareness.
He eased himself away from the doors and leaned negligently against the opposite wall. “That was a close one. Especially since the weight capacity on this lift canna exceed two thousand pounds.”
His voice sank into her bones, heating her from the inside out. Slowly, Lara raised her gaze to his and felt the shock of it all the way to her toes. And just like the first time she’d seen him, everything else seemed to vanish.
She was no longer aware of being in a tiny elevator.
She didn’t care that she wore next to nothing.
She was only aware of Graeme, and the sight of him, so incredibly sexy and masculine, caused her brain to misfire so that instead of saying something smart and sophisticated, the only thing that came out of her mouth was a stuttered, “Huh?”
He didn’t smile, just continued to watch her intently. “I hate to be the one to break this to ye, princess,” he murmured, his Scottish burr turning her insides to mush, “but the Star Wars convention isn’t for another two months.”
Distressed, Lara felt her stomach do a sick flip. Was it her imagination, or had he placed a subtle emphasis on the word princess? He’d always called her his princess; it had been his pet name for her back when they’d first met. Did he recognize her, or was it just her overactive imagination playing tricks on her?
She’d been so certain that he had recognized her, that he’d come barreling after her because he knew who she was and wanted retribution. She’d expected a bitter confrontation, but Graeme was looking at her without a trace of shock or anger or recrimination in his eyes.
In fact, if she wasn’t mistaken, his expression was one of pure, male appreciation, and the heat in his eyes sparked an answering flame. The panic in her chest eased up a bit, and Lara didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
As impossible as it seemed, Graeme Hamilton didn’t have a clue who she was.
Lara dragged her gaze away from his, her mind racing.
He didn’t know it was her.
A part of her knew she should feel hurt that he didn’t recognize her, but another part of her thrilled at the knowledge that he still found her attractive. She reminded herself she’d changed in five years, just as Valerie had said. She’d filled out in some places and slimmed down in others. Combined with the mask and costume, it was no wonder he didn’t know who she was. The thought actually gave her a little courage, and her earlier