Devin bought the restaurant’s best bottle of vintage Bollinger for Beryl and Kev, who insisted that Rachel accepted half a glass for the toast.

Devin explained to the old farmer that even a sip of alcohol would kill him, then gave Beryl a ghoulish description of how his pancreas had almost exploded.

Rachel thought he was laying it on a bit thick, and told him so while Beryl and Kev debated the menu. He looked at her with a gleam in his eye. “You see right through me, don’t you, Heartbreaker?”

“Heartbreaker yourself,” she said tartly, but somehow it came out as a compliment.

“Frenzied Friesians,” he murmured, and Rachel gave in to a fit of the giggles.

CHAPTER SEVEN

DEVIN SAT BACK and admired her. Laughter lightened Rachel’s seriousness, made her accessible. He was pretty cheerful himself. For the first time in New Zealand he didn’t feel like an outsider.

However weird his life had been as a rock star, it had nothing on Beryl and Kev and the obscure facts that popped out of Rachel’s luscious mouth. There was something appealing in the librarian’s quirky nerdiness. She didn’t give a damn about his fame or his opinion and Devin wanted her.

In a corner of the restaurant, a guitarist propped himself on a bar stool and started strumming on a Lucida. The playing was average but his voice was true enough for the flamenco ballads.

Kev thought Sinatra would be nice and requested “Blue Moon,” then sang along in a surprisingly good tenor. “Played the captain in the local production of Gilbert and Sullivan’s H.M.S. Pinafore last year,” he confided to Devin. “Bloody great night this, mate. All it needs is dancing.”

On the quiet, Devin handed over some bills to the management and a few now-empty tables were cleared away. Delighted, Kev and Beryl did an anniversary waltz, moving lightly around the floor. One number led to another. Touched by the elderly couple’s obvious nostalgia, other diners joined them.

The effects of champagne still sparkled in Rachel’s eyes. Devin held out a hand. “Shall we?”

“I haven’t danced for years…you okay with a shuffle?”

She did better than that. As long as Devin distracted her with conversation, her body moved with his in perfect rhythm. She only stumbled when she concentrated on the steps. Which was unfortunate, because Devin didn’t want to talk-he wanted to savor the softness of Ms. Rachel Robinson.

So he encouraged her to expand on her theory of why musicians were so often good at math. “They’re both about playing with nonverbal patterns so there’s a lot of commonality there.”

As she warmed to her subject Devin found he could get away with an “Mmm” and a “Really?” Gradually he drew her closer, until her body was right where he wanted it.

“Mmm.”

THERE WAS SOMETHING in that last “Mmm” that jolted Rachel into awareness that she was dirty dancing with Devin Freedman.

One of his muscular thighs cleaved snugly between hers, his chest was a wall of hot muscle against her breasts and his “Mmm” still vibrated on the top of her head, where he’d been resting his chin.

And the hand supposed to be around her waist was caressing the upper curve of her bottom. About to protest, she became conscious that both her hands were in exactly the same position on his anatomy. She jerked back. “Excuse me a minute.”

In the bathroom she splashed her face with cold water and sprinkled a few drops down her neckline, appalled and ashamed. Obviously, three sips of five-hundred-dollar champagne was an aphrodisiac. Why hadn’t there been a warning on the bottle?

“Remember you’re here to assess his character,” she admonished her guilty reflection.

Rachel put her hair up in the tight ponytail Devin hated. She’d outgrown her partiality for bad boys after the last one got her pregnant.

Back in the main restaurant, the music had stopped and a small group-which included Kev and Beryl, diners and kitchen staff-milled around Devin, who stood with his arms folded, scowling. The dragon on his forearm was a guardian across his chest.

Kev caught sight of Rachel. “Talk him into it, love…all we want is that song the cows like.”

One glance at Devin, and Rachel knew not to try. “We don’t have that kind of relationship,” she said quietly, hoping to remind people of their own tenuous connection to him.

“We weren’t trying to be pushy or anything, mate,” Kev assured Devin, who raised a skeptical eyebrow.

“Of course you weren’t, Kev,” Rachel answered. She took Devin’s arm, unconsciously patting the dragon. His hand closed firmly over hers. “I imagine if Devin picks up a guitar in public the media will start hounding him.”

“I’m not going to give up my privacy.” Under her hand, the muscle relaxed. “But I could have explained it better.” His thumb began a gentle circuit of her knuckles. “I’m sorry for being so defensive.”

Everyone apologized then, with back slaps and handshakes all around. Devin signed autographs, a camera was produced and he stood patiently while everyone had their photo taken with him. Rachel shook her head when he held out a hand for her to join them. She needed to reestablish some distance.

He closed it and her pulse sped up at the heat in his eyes. “Shall we go?”

“No,” she said firmly, practicing the word. “I promised Kev a dance.” Satisfied that Devin had got the message, Rachel dragged the bemused farmer to the dance floor.

SHE WANTED HIM.

That was all Devin needed to know to be patient. While Beryl went off to get a recipe from the chef, he sat at their table and ordered coffee, watching Rachel on the dance floor. In one date, he’d gone from indifference to fascination. He wasn’t used to challenge in his relationships with women. He decided he liked it.

He cast his mind back to his two marriages, the first in his late teens, to an indie rock chick in an all-female band. He’d wanted a port in the storm, but Jax had proved to be as angry offstage as she was on it.

Ten years later he’d hooked up with a Swedish actress during one of his frequent blackouts. It had been a trophy marriage on both sides, the mirror over the bed reflecting two clichés going through the motions of intimacy. They’d separated after three months.

There was no point regretting a past he couldn’t change; still, Devin couldn’t help wincing.

He heard a muffled ringing and tracked it to a cell phone in Rachel’s bag. It wasn’t a model he was familiar with and a text message flashed up when he tried to answer the phone.

Dnt blow chnce 2 screw a rck str. Trix

He stared at the message, then replied, Nt tht kd of grl?

A few minutes passed. R now, rmber our tlk!

Grimly, Devin returned the cell to Rachel’s bag. He was a trophy date, and the librarian was only acting hard to get. Increase her chances of banging a celebrity, he guessed. The fact that it had nearly worked infuriated him.

When Rachel arrived back at the table five minutes later, he regarded her coldly. “I’ve settled the bill.”

“Are you sure you don’t want me to contribute?”

“Let’s not spoil a great evening.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” He pulled himself together-never let them know you care-and steered her toward Beryl and Kev. They left with a promise to visit if they ever got to Matamata. Wherever the hell that was.

“Close to Hamilton, where I grew up,” said Rachel. She filled the silence on the way home with Wikipedia trivia. If Devin hadn’t known better he’d have said she was nervous.

But he did know better. His anger grew hotter, barely contained. Outside her house, he handed over the car keys, shoved his hands in the pockets of his jeans and turned away. “Good night.”