From the corner booth of the dimly-lit hotel lounge, she had no trouble spying the man who'd sent the drink. She studied him while Frank Sinatra crooned a standard from hidden speakers.

He was decent looking at a distance and in a stiff Wall Street-banker kind of way. His dark hair showed signs of receding but didn’t detract from the dimple-studded smile he flashed while toasting her with his own glass—a tumbler of something dark—and dipped his head toward her.

Then his gaze focused, intensified. Raw lust rode the spark of electricity he shot across the room. Like flint on tinder, desire flamed and spread. She fought for composure. So it wasn’t the wine or his adorable dimples or kind of sweet, boy-next-door smile that gave this man the edge over the others. It was the way her panties moistened after exchanging one look.

She tilted her head in acknowledgement and then turned away. “Please thank him for me,” she told the waiter. He swept away the glass of wine she’d been nursing.

For a second, she worried what her children would think if they knew where she was and what she planned.

Her palms sweated. She forced one hand down hard on the cloth-covered table and scraped the other on the pristine, white napkin draped over her lap.

Then she forced away insecurity and uncertainty, along with thoughts of her kids, the expensive home, the luxury cars. Right now, she wasn't wife or mother; she was a woman on the prowl, looking for a night of tangled sheets and sweaty bodies. God knew it had been a long time since her husband displayed the primitive need the stranger at the bar exhibited.

Maybe because they were strangers the night would reap more than an expensive glass of wine. With someone she would never see again, she might find the courage to ask for pleasures she longed to know. She needed this, the anticipation, the thrill of illicit desire. Even a tiny frisson of fear made her come alive.