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tables distracted her and she glanced towards them.

      She frowned suddenly. ‘I hope they’re not trying to beat the dealer by counting in cahoots!’ she exclaimed. ‘They’re all maths hotshots, so they probably could if they tried, but I know casinos don’t like that...’

      ‘Don’t worry—the croupiers know not to let that happen.’

      The words were reassuring, the tone laconic, but Fran glanced at him all the same.

      ‘You sound like you know that,’ she said.

      He nodded, the blue eyes on her. ‘I do,’ he answered.

      She looked at him. So that sounded as if he was definitely part of hotel security, didn’t it? But she still wasn’t sure.

      Then she realised she didn’t care either way. He was speaking again, in that deep, laconic and oh-so-attractive voice of his.

      ‘So, has it been a good conference for you?’ he was asking.

      She nodded. He was keeping her in conversation. She knew he was, he knew she knew he was, and she was OK with it. She didn’t know why she was OK with it, but she was. And right now she would give him an answer to his question.

      ‘Yes—it’s been mentally stimulating. Full-on, but good. And this hotel...’ she gestured with her hand ‘...is fantastic. I don’t really know the Falcone chain, but they’ve pulled out the stops here. My only regret is that I haven’t made enough use of the facilities—I haven’t even had a chance to try out the pool. I definitely will tomorrow, though, before we leave. It’s just a shame I won’t have time to take any of the tours on offer—not even the one to the Grand Canyon!’

      The minute she’d said that she regretted it. Oh, Lord, did he think she was angling for an invitation? She hoped not.

      To her relief he let it pass and simply said, ‘I’m glad you like the hotel—a lot of work went into it.’

      There was professional pride in his voice—she could hear it. It confirmed to her that he must, indeed, be part of the security team that any hotel—let alone one that included a casino—would surely need.

      ‘I’d prefer it without the casino, but there you go. When in Nevada...’ she finished insouciantly.

      ‘Casinos make a lot of money,’ came the laconic reply, and there was another sweep of those long dark lashes over those blue, blue eyes.

      Another whoop of triumph came from the post-grads at the blackjack table.

      Fran laughed. ‘Maybe a little less tonight,’ she observed dryly.

      ‘Maybe,’ he allowed, with a glint of amusement in his face, his eyes, around his mouth.

      The amusement didn’t leave his face, but suddenly there was something else there in his expression—a question. A question that told her, with a quiver of reassurance, that maybe he was not so absolutely sure of himself as he was giving out. And she liked him the more for it.

      ‘And maybe...’ he went on, and there was a speculative look in his eyes now that went with the question, that went with the sense that he was in no way taking her answer for granted. ‘Maybe,’ he continued, the change in his tone of voice matching the change in his expression, ‘if I asked if I might buy you a drink to celebrate your fellow astrophysicists’ obvious win over there, you might say yes?’

      Fran looked at him, glanced back over towards the blackjack table, then looked back at the man who had been chatting her up and was now clearly intent on getting to second base.

      Should she co-operate? Did she want to? Or should she say no politely and head to her room to mug up on her presentation?

      Even as she cogitated, in the milliseconds it took for her brain’s synapses to flash their signals to each other, she felt another emotion stab through her. A sense of restlessness, of wanting something more than to give a fluent presentation the next day. Something more than the hard year of non-stop slog she’d put in since breaking up with Cesare, taking up her research post with the world-famous Nobel Laureate, producing a clutch of published papers with him and his team.

      Whoever this blue-eyed, tough-faced, muscled hunk was, and why it was that, for reasons she could not yet figure out, he was capable of drawing her into conversation the way he so effortlessly had, only one thought was dominating her consciousness right now.

      No, she didn’t want to retire meekly to her room. She wanted, instead, to keep this conversation going, keep this encounter going—keep the rush of fizzing blood in her veins from falling flat.

      A smile parted her lips and she climbed back on to the high bar stool. He let her this time, without trying to help. She looked straight at him. Liking what she saw. Going for broke.

      ‘Why not?’ she said.

      * * *

      Nic’s gaze swept over her with distinct appreciation as she resettled herself on the bar stool. And with gratification too. He hadn’t been entirely sure she would accept his move on her. But that, he knew, was part of her appeal. He was bored with women being over-keen on him, and maybe that was why he was being evasive about who he was—Nicolo Falcone, billionaire founder and owner of the Falcone hotel chain.

      For that very reason he threw a warning glance at the barman as he glided up to them, and received an infinitesimal nod of acknowledgement in return.

      They gave their orders—a Campari and soda for her, a bourbon for him—and Nic lowered himself to sit beside her on the next bar stool.

      ‘So,’ he opened, ‘are you giving any papers yourself at the conference?’

      ‘Yes, a post—that’s a small presentation—about where I’ve got to in my current research. It’s for tomorrow, before the final plenary session.’

      ‘What’s it about—and would I even understand the title?’ he added with good-humoured self-deprecation.

      For all that her incandescent beauty lit up the room for him, she lived in a world that was far, far distant from the cut and thrust of his.

      He watched her take a sip from her drink, admiring her delicate fingers, the elegant air she had about her. She was wearing a mid-price-range cocktail dress, with a square neckline and cap sleeves, which, although it was fitting for the purpose of a formal conference dinner, had little pizzazz about it. Her hair was dressed in a neat pleat, and her make-up was subdued. She looked what she was—an academic dressed up for the evening.

      Desire curled in him, focussed and demanding.

      She was answering him now, and he paid attention, subduing his primitive response to her.

      Her voice, light and crisp in the English style, had warmed with an enthusiasm that came, he knew instinctively, from the intellectual passion in her that lit up in her eyes, animating her fine-boned face.

      ‘My research field is cosmology—understanding the origins and eventual fate of the universe. This poster is just one small aspect of that. I’m running observational data through a computer model, testing various options for the geometry and density of space which might indicate whether, to put it at its simplest, the universe is open or closed.’

      Nic frowned in concentration. ‘What does that mean?’

      Her voice warmed yet more as she explained. ‘Well, if it’s open, the expansion that started with the Big Bang will cause all the matter in the universe to be dissipated, so there will be no stars, no planets, no galaxies and no energy. It’s called heat death and it would be really boring,’ she said with a moue of dislike. ‘So I’m rooting for a closed universe, which could cause everything to eventually collapse back in a Big Crunch and trigger another Big Bang—and the universe will be reborn. Far more fun!’

      Nic took a mouthful of bourbon, feeling the strong liquid ease pleasantly down his throat.

      ‘So, which is it?’ he asked

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