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satisfied with Samuel’s disavowal—which was so much crap. Given the chance, Samuel would grab her, run with her to his cave, and keep her there forever.
    Yet Darren didn’t have to know that.
    Nor did he have to know that if Samuel tried anything the slightest bit bold, Isabelle would slap him silly.
    Samuel had found that out the hard way.
    The wind gusted snow into his face. He looked up at the mountains. “Adelbrecht Wagner said this was avalanche weather.”
    “Yes. The ski patrol will be out tomorrow, setting charges, and all the guests will be stuck inside instead of out skiing.”
    Samuel grinned. His father sounded disgusted, but he would be in his element, juggling meals and entertainment for a full house. “There’s no one better than you to handle the situation.”
    “You could help,” Darren said.
    Samuel’s smile faded. “No. I couldn’t.” Almost from the first moment Samuel had come into the Mason household, his father had persuasively explained that being a butler was a profitable, respectable profession for Samuel to follow. He had shown Samuel everything there was to know about being a top-end servant. He was almost medieval in his desire for Samuel to follow in his footsteps.
    That, as far as Samuel was concerned, conclusively proved he was not Darren’s natural son. Not that he needed proof; he’d been five when Mrs. Mason had convinced Darren and his wife to adopt a needy child, and he well remembered his new parents’ fumbling attempts at dealing with a proud, headstrong son of indeterminate Gypsy heritage.
    It wasn’t that Samuel was ashamed of his father’s profession, but . . . Samuel didn’t serve. He didn’t crawl. He didn’t wait on anyone. Ever.
    He moved toward the door.
    Darren didn’t budge.
    “Dad,” Samuel said, “it’s cold out here.”
    “Of course.” Darren moved aside, so much the proper butler he wouldn’t even tell his kid to behave or get the hell out.
    Samuel strode inside to the top of the stairs by the cloakroom—and paused, arrested by the sight of Isabelle as she walked across the ballroom. She moved like a model, arms gracefully curved at her sides, her long neck held proudly, the sleek, cool, gold ankle-length silk gown draping her body and framing the warmth of her skin. She had pulled her straight hair back into one of those bun things at her neck, and diamond hairpins sparkled like stars in midnight velvet. The gown was designer. He didn’t know which one, but at an event like this, the Mason women always wore designer. The gown flowed around her body, swaying with every motion. The way the silk caressed her . . . he couldn’t take his gaze away.
    He broke into a sweat.
    Did she wear any panties under that skirt? Did she wear any underwear at all?
    She looked absolutely natural, absolutely beautiful, her almond-shaped eyes lifted by expertly applied makeup, her coolly golden skin flawless.
    He wanted to go to her, kneel before her, bare his chest so she could put her stiletto heel over his breastbone and push him flat onto the floor. Then he would do anything she commanded. Kiss her manicured toes. Run his lips up the inside of her leg. Let her sit on his face while he licked her, sucked her until she came once, twice, so often that she forgave him everything.
    Isabelle looked so serenely chic, most men couldn’t imagine that Isabelle Mason would play the dominatrix.
    He knew better. Only he knew that beneath the elegance a passion burned so intensely a man could die trying to contain her fire.
    She joined Michel Moreau, the French ambassador.
    Moreau, short, stout, middle-aged, and bald, couldn’t take his eyes off her.
    Which figured. What man wouldn’t want her?
    Not Samuel, for sure.
    But then, he was crude and vulgar and unfit for a lady like Isabelle.
    At least, that was the gospel according to Patricia Mason.
    Too bad. Because he meant to win Isabelle once more.

Chapter 5

    S amuel started down the stairs toward Isabelle. Glanced