Escape for Valentine's: Beauty and the Billionaire / Her One and Only Valentine / The Girl Next Door

Hunter’s family was insane.

Hunter could handle his family.

What he couldn’t handle was his growing desire to be with Sinclair. When Gramps left and Jack and Kristy checked out of the Ciel D’Or Hotel yesterday, Hunter gave up the room adjoining Sinclair’s, keeping the one on the top floor instead.

It didn’t help.

Or maybe it did.

He still wanted to hold her, talk to her and laugh with her all night long. But being ten floors away made it harder for him to act on those impulses.

Before she left, Kristy had given him a lecture. Telling him in no uncertain terms to put Sinclair’s interests first. Office affairs never ended well, and it was Sinclair who stood to get hurt. So, if Hunter cared for her at all, even just a little bit, he’d back off and let her get her career under control.

Then, just in case the lecture didn’t take, Kristy had pointed out that things generally went bad for men whose cousins-in-law were gunning for them, as well. While Hunter was willing to take his chances with Cleveland and Jack’s wrath, he didn’t want to cross Kristy.

Plus, he cared for Sinclair. He cared for her more than just a little bit. Although he’d never admit it, she had influenced him in the Castlebay deal. Every time his instincts had twitched, or when Richard had pointed out a potential weakness in the deal, Hunter had seen Sinclair’s smiling face, and he’d imagined the rush of telling her they owned the spas.

Castlebay wasn’t a bad deal. But it wasn’t a “pull out all the stops and get the papers signed in forty-eight hours” deal, either.

Yes, he cared about Sinclair. And he wanted her happy. And sleeping with her wasn’t going to make her happy in the long run—even though it would make him ecstatic, short term.

Right now, he heard her heels tap on the hardwood floor. He glanced over to see her cross the dance studio in strappy black sandals and a bright, gauzy blue dress that flowed in points around her tanned calves. The skirt sections separated to give him glimpses of her thighs as she walked.

The dance instructor cued up the music, and Hunter braced himself.

“Ready?” Sinclair asked, her eyes sparkling sapphires that matched the brilliance of the dress.

He took a breath and held out his arms.

“You need to remember,” he told her, watching them together in the big mirror. “From the minute you walk into the ball to the minute you leave, you’re on stage. Roger will be watching what you do and how you do it.”

“You’re making me nervous again,” she complained. But she glanced into the nearest mirror, then pulled back her shoulders and straightened her spine.

Hunter splayed his palm flat against her back. “Don’t be nervous. Look into my eyes. Pay attention to my hand. We’re in this together.”

She met his gaze, and longing catapulted within him. Other than a chaste peck on the cheek, he’d kept to himself since Kristy’s lecture. But now Sinclair was fully in his arms. The back of her dress dipped to a low V, and his thumb brushed her bare skin.

He felt her shiver at the touch, and her reaction ratcheted up his own desire. Damn. He had to get his mind on the dancing.

Hunter led her through the opening steps.

“Go back, Sinclair,” the instructor said. “Now left foot. Shoulders parallel. That’s good. Get ready for the turn.”

Hunter turned her, and Sinclair didn’t stumble. Hunter smiled at her achievement.

“Promenade,” said the instructor, and Hunter slipped his arm around Sinclair’s waist, settling his hand above her hipbone.

“Good start,” said the instructor. “Now, take it away, Hunter. Let’s see what we’ve got to work with.”

“Watch out,” Hunter smiled at Sinclair, pulling her with his fingers, then pushing with the heel of his hand. She moved to the right, then the left, then backward, then into a turn. And she stumbled.

“Again,” said the instructor, and Hunter started over.

She got it right. Then nailed it again.

After four times through the pattern, Hunter altered the ending and caught her by surprise.

“Hey,” she protested.

“Stick with me. It’s boring if we never do anything new.”

“We never do anything at all, anymore,” she muttered under her breath.

He didn’t think he could have heard her right. “Excuse me?”

“Nothing.”

He switched her to a cuddle position. He leaned down, intending to murmur in her ear. She wanted to flirt? He was there.

“Head high,” the instructor called.

Hunter corrected his posture and caught her smirk.

He went back to the basic pattern, then changed it up, then whirled her through an underarm turn, her skirts flaring around her knees.

“You are absolutely gorgeous,” he whispered.

“Thank you,” she said on a sigh. “But I’m tired of being gorgeous.”

The song faded to an end.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

She fingercombed her hair. “Restaurants and dances and fancy clothes are all well and good. But I want to kick back. Maybe hop into sweats, watch a sappy movie and cook something for myself.” She pouted prettily. “I miss cooking.”

“I don’t miss cooking.”

“That’s because you’re spoiled.”

“I’m not spoiled.”

She looked pointedly around the big, mirrored room. “We’re having a private dance lesson.”

The music started, and he took her into his arms once again, not fighting his feelings so much anymore.

“That,” he said as he squared his shoulders and checked their lines, “is because I’m spoiling you.”

She seemed to contemplate his words as the notes ascended. “That is also true.”

Hours later, Sinclair glanced around at the huge arched windows, the kitchenette and the overstuffed leather furniture. “All this time you’ve had a kitchen?” she asked Hunter.

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