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catch off guard as a kid. It had taken two glasses of
     champagne to achieve the same feat now that she was an adult.
    Not that he’d had any luck whatsoever in getting her to listen to his attempt to explain
     the kiss. He’d meant to tell her that there’d just been something in that moment,
     leftover heat from the fire maybe, a certain look in her eyes.
Something
that had made it impossible for him to let her walk away.
    Now, he couldn’t imagine what had possessed him. Maybe too many painkillers?
    “You’re not going to sleep with me? Then why the hell did I invite you?”
    Her eyes flew open.
    It sure was fun to tease her, though.
    “Ha ha ha. Very funny,” she said and threw herself back into her own seat. “You remember
     the ground rules.”
    It wasn’t a question.
    “Yes, ma’am.”
    “And they are?”
    “Really?”
    Silence.
    He ticked the rules off on his fingers, one by one. “No kissing.” The glance he shot
     her was pure sin wrapped in a red velvet ribbon. “I didn’t actually agree to follow
     any of these rules, you know.” She raised an eyebrow, and he scowled back. “I didn’t
     know what I was agreeing to when I said we’d do whatever you wanted. Yeah, yeah, rule
     number two: no salsa. That was confusing. At first, I thought you had something against
     Mexican food, and I was going to scrap this whole trip. A woman who doesn’t dig jalapeños
     isn’t worth knowing—”
    “Let’s focus here, shall we?” She broke in. Clearly, it was important to keep the
     rules at the forefront. “The waltz and the cha-cha—”
    “Are allowed, I get it. But no salsa.”
    “I have issues with salsa. It’s safer to avoid it completely.”
    He pictured Sarah stomping on his foot and flushing with embarrassment and was almost
     tempted to make one of the dance clubs on the Strip their first stop. Of course, given
     the continued weakness of his leg, it was more likely that he’d be watching from the
     sidelines, nursing a drink. Which might be the safer way to go, actually.
    “Noted. And finally, under no circumstances, no matter how much you beg—which is difficult
     to imagine, mind you, since I can hardly picture you even saying
please
at the moment—am I to let you within twenty yards of a high-stakes poker game.”
    J.D. looked at Sarah. Her long, sleek dark hair was pulled back in a neat ponytail.
     She was wearing cream khakis, a white turtleneck and a tailored black velvet jacket
     that seemed to have invisible little hooks up the front, since he couldn’t see buttons
     or a zipper. Black lace-up flats. A little lip gloss, maybe. She looked very nice,
     clean and conservatively stylish.
    Not exactly like a woman who had issues with salsa dancing and high-stakes poker.
     He couldn’t imagine that he’d have a hard time following her rules. Maybe bringing
     her with him was enough of an apology. He could drop her off by the pool and go find
     that up-and-coming actress from the last film he’d documented. The one who kept asking
     him to show her his darkroom as if digital had never happened, what was her name…something
     Italian, Donatella…
    Beatrice, which she pronounced in the Italian way, Bay-ah-tree-chay. Despite knowing
     no more Italian than
ciao.
Beatrice from Boise, with a body that was putting some L.A. plastic surgeon’s kid
     through college. Her number was still in his cell phone, he’d bet. Although he’d need
     to make sure to “forget” his camera, if he wanted to avoid being asked to shoot porn
     photos.
    A
harrumph
broke into his fantasy of stripping
Signorina
Beatrice out of her Juicy Couture faster than she could say, “I really admire your
     art.” Sarah was glaring at him with a look that would have done his battleship of
     a third-grade teacher proud. What the hell were they talking about?
    Right, poker.
    “Don’t worry, slick. No tournament poker action for you.” Maybe he rolled his eyes
     just a little.
    “I’m serious, Damico.” She