“Now, now,” Oz murmured, fascinated by her willful personality, “there’s no reason we can’t be friends. Where are you from?” He hadn’t seen her before, and if she was indeed a countess, he would have met her-and more to the point, wouldn’t have forgotten so splendid a woman. She had the face of an enchantress-sensual blue eyes dark with storm clouds, a fine straight nose, soft, cherry red lips that fairly begged to be kissed, and a stubborn little chin that was infinitely fascinating to a man who knew far too many willing females. A glorious halo of pale hair framed her features, and even with their brief bodily contact, her voluptuousness was conspicuous.

“I have no intention of being your friend, nor need you know where I’m from.” She must extricate herself from this unexpected and potentially disastrous predicament-and quickly. Her plans didn’t include someone who might talk out of turn. Everything depended on a nameless lover who couldn’t be found and cross-examined.

“Then perhaps,” Oz drawled, “I should tell Mr. Malmsey that I don’t choose to cooperate with this scheme and if he persists I’ll sue him for every penny he has.”

“You’re the one who barged in,” she argued, more calmly now. This man would eventually name his price; everyone did.

“And you were the one who said I was late.” His lazy smile was full of grace. “Surely I’d have been remiss to keep a lady waiting.”

“How very smooth you are. But impertinent, sir.”

“While you’re quite beautiful,” he softly countered. “Although I expect you already know that. Tell me, is this little drama perpetrated to give your husband cause for divorce? If so, I don’t understand why your lover is willing to expose you to all the prurient interest and scandal on your own. Where’s the scoundrel’s backbone?”

“So you would assume responsibility if your lover were exposed in court?”