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“Laurel stood on stage. She was very still. Her lovely blue eyes were lowered modestly. Her silver blonde hair fell in disheveled curls around her face, white roses and strands of pearls woven artfully throughout. A necklace of what looked like diamonds clasped her slender throat while white kid gloves were drawn up to her elbow. She held a fan of frosted silver in one hand, dangling at her side. Her dress was a shimmering sapphire blue, and it fit her exquisitely, molding to her form, hugging her small bosom and lifting her breasts until they appeared ready to spill from the satin bodice. A silver braided sash cinched her waist, emphasizing its narrowness. And then, she lifted her head, raised the hand that held the fan, then the other one and, tipping her head back, opened her eyes. They were haunting and luminous, soft in the candlelight. Her skin was pale and smooth. The crowd was utterly quiet, watching her. And then, she began to sing. If Dare had thought Laurel Spencer beautiful before, now she became goddess-like to him in an instant as a melody so heart-wrenching and lovely spilled forth from her lips.”

“She felt herself leaning forward, and sucked in a breath to steady herself, then wished she had not, for immediately the fresh, sweaty, sun-soaked scent of him filled her nostrils, fueling the mad urge to reach out a fingertip and graze that triangle of skin, a desire of such intensity she could hardly breathe or move.”

“Briar waved a hand and gave a tinkling happy laugh. He flinched. This was unbearable. The lass was as fresh and pretty as a daisy and seemed just as oblivious to her own charms as a garden flower was, too. She smelled much better than a daisy, however. Daisies were highly overrated flowers. When you got up close to one, they smelled disappointingly like manure. No, Briar Blakeley smelled like something delicious. Like something you wouldn’t mind popping straight into your mouth. Like cake baked with vanilla and cinnamon. Or a confectionary’s shop. She was sweet as honey, probably twice as naive, and something about her was making his blood pound and his loins tighten. The sooner he could get rid of her the better.”

“Gracie's first thought was that it was unfair a man should have such a sinfully beautiful mouth. Her next was that it was made for seduction and unspeakable delights. And her third was that it was made for despair—for despair was what she could not help but feel as she stared at this young man, who seemed a strange and uncanny reflection of herself. Not only a more perfect specimen of manhood than she could ever pretend to be in her feigned garb, but a man who reflected her very soul back to her without even seeming to realize it, more herself than she was, yet in the way that fire complimented frost, or the ocean reflected the stars.”

“His lips burned as they touched her own. She gave a little gasp under his mouth before being completely smothered by his fire. He wanted her, she understood in amazement. And it was not the fact that she was capable of attracting a man which surprised her—for she well knew her own value—but that it was this particular man, who had already filled her with a tempestuous rage, was now capable of making her feel quite another way. Of unlocking her with his lips, making her feel like a quivering flame within a frail woman's body, smoldering with a burning desire she had not even known she was capable of possessing.”