"I work with you. There's a difference. And just so you know, you're seriously starting to piss me off."

"Well, just so you know, this is the last time you're getting your way."

Jeez, what a sore loser.

"So, what do you think?" Royce asked.

I regarded him for a moment. We were in a secluded corner of a smoke-filled bar, drinking wine and listening to the hum of a saxophone in the background. The area was dim, lit only by candles. We had finished our tour of the lodge only a short while ago.

I didn't want to argue with him, but realized I might have no other choice since the information I was about to give him wasn't what he wanted to hear. "As lovely as this place is," I said, "it simply won't do."

"Have you already made a list as to why not?" Amusement glinted in his eyes. He wasn't angry, at least.

I exhaled a relieved breath. "As a matter of fact," I told him, "I have."

"This, I need to hear."

"This building isn't large enough, for one, and the cabin, which is smaller, won't be, either."

"And two?" He tried to cover his smile with his palm, but I caught the action.

His levity should have ruffled me. After all, if he truly wanted the party here, I had no other choice but to comply. Instead, I felt strangely at ease. The wine, perhaps? Or the company?

"Two," I said, "this is too rustic for our Arabian Nights theme."

"So we'll make it Arabian Nights meets Urban Cowgirl."

"Three," I said, acting as if he hadn't spoken, "I don't want the party held here."

"That's not a reason."

"It is to me. What about flying the guests here?"

"They'll love being flown in my jet, I promise you. And my mother will adore the clean mountain air."

"You can't fit three hundred people in your death trap of a plane."

"We'll cut down the list. Make it a small, private gathering."

He had an answer for everything.

Loud, raucous laughter suddenly rang out. A thirty-something man with long, wavy brown hair stood onstage, tapping on a microphone. "It's time for the karaoke entertainment hour," he said, his voice booming throughout the bar. "I know we've got some eager beavers out there, dying to get up on this stage and belt out a few tunes. Well, tonight's your lucky night. We've got a great selection."

The crowd cheered. Several people even raised their glasses.

"Who's first?"

One young man stumbled to his feet. His constant swaying and glassy-eyed expression made it obvious he'd had a little too much to drink. "I'll do it." His words were slurred, almost unrecognizable. The girl at his table giggled hysterically, urging him on. "I want to sing a sappy hong."

More giggling.

"Anyone else. Please," the man onstage begged, an edge of desperation evident in the tense profile of his body.

Silence.

I looked around and noticed that everyone else was doing the same. An instant later, I heard, "I dare you."

I whipped around, staring over at Royce. Surely he'd misspoken. He wouldn't have said-

"I dare you." He gave me a devilish smile.

I wasn't someone who usually responded to dares. I mean, who wanted to run outside naked screaming, "The sky is falling?" I also knew Royce didn't think I'd accept his dare.

My own devilish sense of humor-or maybe the simple desire to prove to him that I truly did possess an inner Tigress- rose within me, insisting I leap out of my seat and pole-vault onto that stage.

I tapped a finger on my chin and regarded him intently. "What do I get if I take you up on your dare?" I asked.

He held out his arms in invitation. "Me."

I should have expected such a reply. Smiling, I shook my head. "Good try. But that prize doesn't appeal to me." Lie. "Name something else."

"A night of wild sex."

"Nope." Bigger lie.

Royce stroked his jaw with deliberate slowness. "Hmm. What will tempt you, Naomi Delacroix?"

"Probably nothing." Biggest lie of all. I refilled my glass and sipped at my wine, savoring the robust flavor, relishing the comforting warmth it gave me. And the courage. "Try and tempt me. Just try."

"What if I promised the party won't be held anywhere that requires stepping inside an airplane?" he said. "Does that appeal to you?"

No more plane rides? I almost did a table dance right then and there. He'd chosen the one prize I could never refuse. Was the embarrassment of missing a note, of watching him snicker at my attempt to sing worth it?

I didn't have to think about it.

"You've got a deal," I said. Then, before I could talk myself out of it, I held out one hand to shake and seal the bargain. His big hand dwarfed my smaller one and his calluses sparked a delicious friction.

"Good luck." He shot a glance through the restless crowd. "This doesn't look like a receptive audience."

He was trying to dissuade me, anything to win the bet. I surprised him by pushing to my feet. "I'll do it," I said, loud enough for the man onstage to hear. I made a face at Royce. Ha! I might make a fool of myself, might have to endure jeers and snickers and catcalls, but I'd be damned if I'd leave this bar a loser.

All at once, the crowd quieted. Every eye in the room found me, riveted by the spectacle I must surely make. My knees began quaking.

A slight brush of Royce's palm against my hip drew my gaze back to him. "What? Wishing you'd kept your mouth closed?" I asked.

His brows rose in mock salute. "Are you sure you want to do this?"

"A bet's a bet, and I simply can't let you win." With that, I pivoted on my heel and strolled to the stage, unwinding the twist in my hair and letting the long, dark tendrils cascade down my shoulders and back.

Though my hand shook, I took the microphone from the announcer's outstretched hand. "Do you have 'Achy Breaky Heart'?"

He offered me a relieved grin. "Never have karaoke night without it."

A few seconds later, music blasted from the speakers, penetrating the sudden silence. The sound continued to climb in volume. Words appeared on a screen just in front of me.

Deciding simply to have fun, I assumed a laugh-with-me-not-at-me pose: one hand on my hip, silly grin on my lips. I began to sing. When the first note left my mouth, all movement in the audience stopped. Even the drunk guy stared up at me like I belonged in an institution.

But I worked the stage like a pro, flipping my hair, copping an attitude and, at last, someone chuckled. That was all it took.

"Oh, yeah," a man yelled. "Give it to me, baby. My heart is hurtin'."

"You can break me anytime," another called.

All around, hands clapped to the beat, urging me on. I went for it, giving the performance my all. I'd never admit it aloud, but I had the time of my life on that stage, belting out the lyrics and strutting my stuff.

When the end arrived, my voice slowly tapered to quiet. I waited for a reaction. Suddenly applause erupted and loud, buoyant cheers peeled like bells. Catcalls and whistling abounded.

I resisted the urge to stick my tongue out at Royce. I'd done it. Really done it. I had won my bet with him. Na, na, na, na, na, na. Take that, Mr. Royce Powell, god of the airplane world and superhero of sexiness.

No more airplane rides!

My grin became a smirk as I looked to Royce. He saluted me with his wineglass.

Intending to gloat, I descended the stage and strolled to him. When I reached the table, he helped me settle into my chair, but didn't wait around to let me wallow in my victory.

"I'll be back in a moment," he said. And before I could protest, he sauntered away. He didn't even send me a backward glance. My lips pursed. How dare that sore loser not lavish me with compliments.

A few minutes later, my shock and anger at Royce's abrupt departure dissolved. I was too busy praying God would make me invisible. A very untidy, very intoxicated man was stumbling my way.