Temporarily, however, it seemed that he was incapable of removing his hand from her fanny. It wasn’t a choice. Normal honorable, ethical standards of behavior simply couldn’t apply. His palm slid down the silky dress from the hollow of her spine to the fullest slope of her rump. He squeezed several times, because hell, he had to.

Said squeezing produced the obvious biological response in him-he was hard as a hammer in three seconds flat. Above the neck, though, his forehead produced a frown darker than a Texas thunderstorm. “What in God’s name are you wearing under that dress?”

He would never have asked the question, except that the answer seemed to be nothing. Absolutely nothing. There wasn’t a woman in the Club-except for Winona-who wasn’t dripping diamonds and sequins. Jewels winked from ears, throats, wrists and fingers, all across the dance floor. Win’s ears were naked and so was her throat; the long, soft black dress made all the pricey designer gowns look overdone and fussy. To Justin, she stood out as a hopeless beauty. Always had, in his eyes.

It was just…he couldn’t feel any underwear. He certainly hadn’t put his hand on her fanny expecting to feel underwear. But the silky dress was a thinnish material, so that his hand instinctively expected to find panty lines, a sense of fabric. And when they didn’t, alarm bells clanged in his mind on a par with a fire truck’s siren. There weren’t too many reasons a woman would neglect to wear underwear to a very public, very fancy gig-especially Winona, who didn’t reveal nuttin’ to no one-normally. When it came down to it, Justin could only think of one reason she’d be running around sans panties. There had to be a lover she was trying to turn on.

A lover.

A man.

A man-who wasn’t him.

“Justin, what the Sam Hill is the matter with y-”