The tremor in her voice rocked him. "I never called you any of those things."

"No, but you think it. That's why you think I'll have sex with you, but I won't." She cursed and bent down to slip off a shoe.

"What are you doing?"

"What does it look like I'm doing?" she hissed. Off came the other one, and she lost four inches. "My feet are killing me in these horrible shoes, and I knew good and well I shouldn't have bought them in the first place."

"If you knew you shouldn't have bought them," Miguel said, "why did you?"

"Because they went with the dress."

"Why do you women do such things to yourselves?"

"Because of you men!"

Miguel couldn't believe he was standing outside, arguing about shoes, when he couldn't care less about them. He pinched the bridge of his nose, indecisive about whether he should kiss her or throttle her.

It was because of the sassy way she'd put her hand on her hip to give him a piece of her mind, the pout of those full lips, and the way the lights flicked across her skin, inviting him to touch. Each movement called out to him.

"Trust me," he said, enunciating each word. "Most men don't care about what you have on your feet." At least they didn't when a woman was on her back under him. "Now put your shoes on and get back inside, and I'll escort you home when the event is over."

Oh, she didn't like that. Her eyes changed color, spitting fire at him. The hand holding the shoes went back to her hip. "Or what? What are you going to do? Nothing."

She turned away and said something in another language. He didn't know what she said, but he was fairly certain whatever it was, she said it in French. She cursed at him. If he'd even doubted it for a minute, her next act confirmed his thought.

When her foot connected with the bottom step, she lifted her hand and stuck her middle finger in the air. She held her hand upright for a long time and added extra energy to her walk. Daring him to do something.

His eyes narrowed as he watched her walk away--in the red dress he helped pick out. A dress which fit like a second layer of skin on her ripe body. Her perfectly shaped butt cheeks moved up and down beneath the stretchy fabric, her hips rolling as she let them sway side to side like the pendulum on a clock.

His blood boiled as she purposely taunted him, daring him to make a move, like she had that night at Seth's Bar.

Baiting him.

His control snapped like a twig under foot. Her petulant anger shouldn't turn him on, but it did. He wanted to claim her, put his stamp on her.

What are you going to do? Nothing.

Miguel started down the steps.

It was time Samirah Jamison learned a lesson. And he was just the man to teach it to her.