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her midriff.
    She felt surrounded by him. Each breath she took drew in the faint scent of his cologne and shifted thetexture of his black jacket against her mostly bare arms, pressed the round black shirt studs against her waist.
    She closed her eyes, flooded by sensations as her awareness of him intensified. She wanted to sink against his powerful body, wanted to pull his arms closer and wrap them around her, but instead, she forced her eyes open. And caught her breath when she gazed directly into the mirrored elevator wall and the reflection of Chance’s heavy-lidded eyes. Heat flooded her, matching the burn in his dark stare.
    She stood still and his hand tightened at her waist, muscles flexing in the hard body that held her close. The moment was taut with silent tension. She nearly groaned with frustration when the connection was abruptly broken by the ping of the elevator when it came to a smooth stop. The doors opened with an audible whoosh, the sound further shattering the moment.
    â€œOur floor,” Chance murmured in her ear, his voice deeper, rougher.
    Jennifer didn’t reply, unsure if her voice would actually function. She and Chance moved with the crowd, conversation unnecessary amid the laughter and chatter. Chance’s hand rested at the small of her back, a warm weight that tied her to him as surely as if it were an invisible chain.
    Never had she been so conscious of the differences between male and female, nor so compelled to explore the undeniable pull on her senses that drew her inexorably toward him.
    They reached a wide archway and the guests around them slowed, forming a straggling line as they waited to enter the dining room.
    â€œDinner should be great,” Chance murmured. “I happen to know one of the chefs.” He took a square, gold-embossed, cream-colored card from his inner jacket pocket as the line moved forward.
    â€œGood evening, Dr. Demetrios.” The tuxedo-clad man standing just outside the door smiled with warmth, nodding at Jennifer. “Ma’am.”
    â€œHello, Frank,” Chance replied. “Tell your boss I’m glad he’s doing the catering tonight. I was seriously considering skipping the dinner until I heard he was the chef.”
    â€œI’ll tell him.” The man’s smile broadened. He took the invitation from Chance and consulted a seating chart. “You and your lady are with the senator and his wife at a front table.” He snapped his fingers and a waiter instantly appeared. “Joseph, show the doctor and his guest to table number four.”
    â€œYes, sir. This way, please.” The young mansketched a quick, respectful nod and led the way across the room.
    Jennifer tried not to stare as they crossed the beautifully appointed art-deco dining room. White linen tablecloths covered round tables, each set for eight guests with polished silverware, gold-trimmed china, sparkling crystal glasses and fresh floral centerpieces. Crystal chandeliers were spaced at intervals down the ceiling and glittered and gleamed, adding their brilliance to the recessed lighting in the boxed ceiling.
    â€œChance!” A tall man with a mane of white hair and sun lines fanning from the edges of shrewd blue eyes stood as they reached a table just to the left of the speaker’s podium. “I told Emily Armstrong to make sure we sat at your table. I’m glad it worked out.”
    â€œHello, Archie.” Chance shook the man’s outstretched hand before draping an arm over Jennifer’s shoulder. “Jennifer, this is Senator Claxton and his wife, Evelyn. Their son, Ben, was my best friend from kindergarten through college. Archie and Evelyn, this is Jennifer Labeaux.”
    â€œGood evening,” Jennifer held out her hand and received a firm, warm handshake.
    â€œGlad to meet you, Jennifer,” the senator said, his eyes kind, his smile welcoming.
    Seated on his left, his wife nodded and smiled. “It’s