Two Step-Sisters

"You've told me more than I ever wanted to know about the catering business. Why don't you tell me something about yourself?"

Iris looked cautiously over the top of her wineglass. In the candlelight his eyes shimmered, like liquid bronze. How she'd mistaken them for merely brown at the wedding, she couldn't guess. The regal bearing, the lingering smile, the simmering gaze were the same as they'd been then, yet different. Flirting with a fantasy prince was easy. Dining with…with…him, was tying her in knots.

She tried to remember what she'd read in the etiquette book this afternoon. Should she call him Lord Bennington or Sir Bennington? Maybe in America it was Mr. Bennington, but then again that could be an insult. Wait, he was Earl of Marshbridge, so maybe it was Mr. Marshbridge, or Lord Marsh-

"Iris?"

"Uh..." How long had she been staring at him? "Sorry, Mr., uh, no, Lor- Sir — " She clutched the glass and took a gulp.

"It would be much simpler if you'd agree to call me Jason. It's perfectly acceptable to be on intimate terms with your date."

"Intimate?"

"Personal, then." The gentle teasing in his tone and the look in his molten eyes made her skin tingle. Or maybe it was too much wine.

She took a sip, savoring the dry astringent taste, then set the glass down. The edge caught on her plate and the glass tipped, drenching the pristine table in a burgundy smear.

"Oh my goodness." She threw her napkin into the puddle, accidentally knocking the water goblet into his lap. She lunged for it, causing the single candle on the table to wobble. Jason grabbed it and stood, dripping. His water soaked clothing no longer looked impeccable.

"Jason, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to ruin your suit." She snatched a napkin from another table and moved forward to blot at the water stains.

"Perhaps I'd better do that." He took the cloth from her and dabbed at his trousers.

As she watched the controlled movements of his hands, Iris felt a blush that seared her from her cheeks to her toes. The dream was turning into a nightmare again. She'd publicly humiliated him. People were looking at them, at her, pointing. Their whispers grew louder and gathered into a menacing force that sucked the air from the room, crushing her. She had to escape. Find the exit. Leave him. Now. A warm, solid grasp on her upper arm stopped her.

"Iris, look at me." Jason turned her, capturing her other arm in the process.

She dragged her gaze from the welcoming door to the Italian tile floor at his feet.

"Look at me," he repeated. A gentle squeeze on her arms convinced her he wouldn't let go until she obeyed. She looked up.

"It's all right," he said with a quiet firmness.

He kept her from running, but his hands stroked her arms as if to reassure her that everything really was all right. He didn't seem insulted, or angry, or even amused by her accident. There was a hint of a smile, and even tenderness, in his eyes.

She blinked. He wasn't a distressing aristocrat anymore; he was simply a man. A warm, solid, real man who was slightly damp and completely perfect.

One arm slipped around her waist and the other cradled her nape as he drew her into a kiss as warm and real as he was. Charmed by the caress of his lips and protected by his arms, she listened to the rustling whispers of the crowd without the slightest urge to flee.