Wolfe Wedding by Joan Hohl Page A

since the moment she met him. More than interested, if the truth was faced—and in her case, it always was.
    There had been between them an instant spark, a sensual recognition, a chemical reaction—whatever. She certainly had felt it; she had believed then,and believed even more strongly now, that he felt it, too.
    It had been there from the first, a male-female thing, shimmering and crackling between them. That she had previously not indulged herself by exploring the intangible something had not altered or negated it. But, though she had not explored it, she had been receptive to every word spoken or murmured about the object of her interest. And the words she had heard over time about Cameron had not been encouraging.
    Early on, Sandra had garnered the information that Cameron had been more than merely involved with a woman. That involvement, moreover, had progressed to speculation about an imminent announcement of their engagement. Then, abruptly, the speculation had ceased, replaced by an undercurrent of suggestion that the affair was over and, more to her interest, that Cameron had been left devastated by the perfidy of the woman, who had apparently dumped him for another, richer man.
    Cameron had obviously been hurt in the process, and in turn, now she was feeling the pain.
    Sandra sighed as she uncorked the wine to let it breathe.
    Unbidden, she recalled hearing a scathing comment by a woman, somewhere, to the effect that the handsome and exciting special agent did not in factlike women, but merely tolerated them when the demands of sexual appetites had to be appeased.
    At the time, Sandra had dismissed the remark out of hand as the nasty barb of a frustrated woman.
    Now she wondered. And the very fact that she did so said much about her state of mind.
    She had now spent over a week in Cameron’s company. Day in, day out, to the exclusion of everything and everyone else, and at no time had she discerned so much as a hint indicating disdain for the opposite sex.
    Quite the contrary. He had proved to be excellent and entertaining company, fun to be with, laugh with, make love with. especially to make love with.
    But, of course, that was precisely what he had promised, wasn’t it? Sandra reminded herself. Great sex. A sensual sabbatical.
    And he had delivered, above and beyond the call, beyond her wildest imaginings.
    Until the call to duty had intruded, dousing the fire of sensuality with the blanket of cold reality. And now it was over. She was in the way.
    But there was still tonight to get through. And Cameron appeared prepared—no, eager—to suspend reality for one more night of sensual heat.
    Sandra stared at the ruby red wine in the bottle, sniffed the intoxicating scent.
    Did she want to play along, close her mind to the hopelessness of the situation, lose herself in the allure of his mouth, his touch, his possession?
    Yes. Sandra wanted this night with him, more than she had ever before wanted anything.
    Would she allow herself the license of mindlessness for the sake of one more night with him?
    She hesitated. then closed her eyes against the pain of facing the bottom-line answer.
    No.
    She could not betray herself, any more than she could ever betray him.
    She loved him. But a one-sided love was never, could never, be enough.
    Sex was one thing. Love was another. And Sandra knew that for her, to hang on to one while denying the other would be self-destructive.
    Her decision reached, she gathered her strength, steeled herself for the evening ahead.
    But dreams, old and new alike, die very hard, and her mettle was tested with the first step Cameron took into the kitchen.
    The look of him, showered, shaved, his damp hair appearing dark, like antique gold, stole her breath, and nearly shattered her resolve.
    He was dressed in faded jeans that hugged his narrow hips and waist and delineated the musculature of his long legs. A stark white loose-knit sweater defined the width and breadth of his