She turned to paste him with a back-off stare, her look of disdain making him wish he’d at least kept his tie done up. But a split second later, her expression mellowed.

“Vodka martini?” the waiter confirmed.

“Sure,” said Royce.

“You were the best man,” the woman stated, her voice husky-sexy in the quiet of the lounge.

“That I was,” Royce agreed easily, more than willing to use tonight’s official position to his advantage. “Royce Ryder. Brother of the groom. And you are?”

“Amber Hutton.” She held out a feminine hand.

He took it in his. It was small, smooth, with delicate fingers and soft skin. His mind immediately turned to the things she could do to him with a hand like that.

“Tired of dancing?” he asked as the waiter set the martini in front of him. He assumed she would have had plenty of partners in the crowded ballroom.

“Not in the mood.” Her fingers moved to the small plastic spear that held a trio of olives in her glass. She shot a brief glance behind her toward the promenade that led to the sparkling ballroom. Then she leaned closer to Royce. He met her halfway.

“Hiding out,” she confided.

“From?” he prompted.

She hesitated. Then she shook her head. “Nothing important.”

Royce didn’t press. “Any way I can be of assistance?”

She arched a perfectly sculpted brow. “Don’t hit on me.”

“Ouch,” he said, feigning a wounded ego.

That prompted a smile. “You did ask.”

“I was expecting a different answer.”

“I’ll understand if you want to take off.”

Royce gazed into her eyes for a long moment. Past her smile, he could see trouble lurking. Though women with trouble usually sent him running for the hills, he gave a mental shrug, breaking one of his own rules. “I don’t want to take off.”

“You one of those nice guys, Royce Ryder?”

“I am,” he lied. “Good friend. Confidant. A regular boy next door.”