Duncan Kincaid was born with adventure in his blood ... They climbed from the dark, mysterious cave, and for a moment it seemed to Cairo as if they were standing atop a pyramid again, looking over the burning sands. Duncan wiped perspiration from his brow with the back of his hand, and for the first time that day she noticed the way the ends of his blue-black hair curled when wet. And then he moved toward her, his stride slow, methodical. The man oozed sexual magnetism that could send a seismograph right off the Richter scale. The first time she'd seen him he'd been walking out of an ancient tomb and the sunlight slashed across his eyes. The blue was so pale that he looked like a man from another world, a god, hypnotizing her, seducing her. He'd do the same thing now ... if she'd let him. "You're staying the night," he said, "whether you want to or not." Staying the night with Duncan was a bad idea. Oh, no, she couldn't stay, not when she thought he was an irresponsible cad one moment and a breathless wonder the next. Heaven forbid, she remembered their wedding night and the heart-shaped bathtub filled to the brim with bubbles and two warm, slick bodies. She remembered the cool satin sheets and Duncan introducing her to the delights of chocolate mints that melted at body temperature and tasted—and felt—so blissfully wonderful when they were licked away. No. She couldn't spend the night with Duncan. Not again.