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him. “I didn’t come to you.”
    “Then try coming to me now,” he said bitterly.
    He didn’t wait for a reply. He swung her into his arms, pulling her close to him as he steered her into the throng of dancing couples, moving with an aggressive sureness of step and total confidence in his power to rekindle the physical attraction that had once before exploded into compelling need.
    Alida did not resist. All her defiance and bitter resolutions were caving in under the shattering knowledge that Gareth was not married any more. The feel of his body against her own weakened her even further. She no longer had any clear idea of where this might lead. All she could think of was that Gareth was free.

CHAPTER THREE
    The band was playing “Hey, Jude.” The hour was late. The frenetic earlier energy had given way to the more languorous beat of soulful songs.
    Gareth held her intimately against his body, ensuring she would have no trouble following his every step. She could feel the hard play of his muscles as he swept her effortlessly around the floor, using the seductive rhythm to turn every movement into a tantalising exercise in sensuality.
    He was very good at doing what he was doing, Alida thought. She had given up on her body. It was far too hungry for the feelings he aroused to take any notice of cerebral instructions.
    Every slide of his hard muscular thighs against hers sent a quiver of excitement through her stomach. Gareth was over six feet tall, but her own above-average height and the high heels she wore made them well-matched for the subtle sexuality he employed in his dancing. The palm of his hand in the pit of her back pressured the vertebrae of her spine, controlling her movements, their togetherness. It was a pressure that made her extremely aware of his masculinity, of her femininity.
    Perhaps it was stupidly defeatist of her to still want him. But she did. No man measured up to Gareth Morgan. Not before or since. He had scarred her life with such careless, arrogant ease, yet somehow that didn’t seem to matter now. She loved the touch of him, the feel of him, the scent of him, the thought of him.
    Common sense insisted he only wanted to use her again and she should not let him have this effect on her. It was wrong. Hopelessly, hurtfully wrong. His wife’s death did not change Gareth’s opinion of her. She was not a woman he would ever take seriously. He simply did not see her as a woman he could love. Or want to love. He had loved Kate. Still loved the memory of her. Whereas she…
    “Alida.” The gravelly murmur was a command for her attention.
    She looked up reluctantly, hoping that her eyes did not reveal her intense desire for him.
    There was a grim set to his face, a dark world of torment in his eyes that told her she had certainly aroused memories that hurt. “If you had known I was married would you have acted differently?” he asked.
    Had she made him feel guilty for using her as he had? Did he want his conscience cleared? Or did he simply want to feel justified in what he had done? Once again the primitive urge to revenge herself on him seared her mangled heart. He should pay for his callous treatment of her!
    Yet if she was totally honest with herself, could she have resisted him when he started making love to her, when he had already seduced her with his eyes, arousing so much need, promising every answer to it? Would she have thought of Kate Morgan when Gareth himself had filled her mind to the exclusion of everything else?
    “No,” she answered flatly. “The only difference would have been that afterwards I would have hated you more.”
    His mouth curled in self-mockery. “If it gives you any satisfaction, I hated myself enough for us both.”
    “Did you feel guilt enough for both of us, too?” she asked derisively.
    She could see the withdrawal in his eyes, the flicker of pain that was too private to share, and she wished she hadn’t said that. What good could it do to keep