Donovan stood by one of the refreshment tables in Whitcomb's ballroom, staring at the French door where Samantha had escaped after their waltz. He twisted the slender stem

of his champagne glass in his fingers, staring at the doorway.

He wouldn't follow her. He couldn't. It would be a grave tactical error to follow Samantha into the moonlight She

looked too much like a vision from a fairy tale this evening

Too much like the fine ladies he had dreamed about his mate when he had dared to dream he was an Alpha in his father's pack.

He sipped his champagne, but the cold wine did little to cool the...